Dear other half,
By the time you read this, I'll be married. I regret to inform you that there were a number of contestants for my affections, and you were not the winner.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer.
I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to run the 3rd marathon around the world together (tied together, that is), but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say.
I want to tell you that I think you are a virgin, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the latest addition to my evergrowing list of people I'm planning to kill,
and I am your father.
You like stamp collecting, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, and dissecting frogs with butterknives,
and I'm just not sure I can ever share your joy in those things.
How can two people so different ever make it for the long haul? I think we should date our own mirror images.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I want to remember what suffering feels like.
I'd really like us to become people that pretend they never dated,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, at least when we turned the clock forward a few hours and then pretended that something nice happened during that time (whereas nothing at all happened, really).
Take care of yourself and never forget that everything in this letter was a lie.
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam,
~ God.
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