Dear Mr. President,
By the time you read this, I'll be eaten by a grue.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but seeing you without makeup made homosexuality suddenly seem very feasible to me.
I know this might seem like an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill any infidel swine who refuses to submit to the ways of the Holy Qur'an and our great prophet Muhammad (peace by upon him), but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need a bit of a laugh.
I want to tell you that I think you are strangely charismatic, considering your freakishly odd appearance, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are possessed by Pazuzu,
and I am vastly more intelligent than that.
You like toying with mousetraps, pretending to be Captain America, and sewing extra limbs onto your body,
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 but only so I'll get another shot at killing your for real.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I dig your cold, dead body up again to have sex with you.
I'd really like us to become people that pretend not to know each other,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, at least before we met.
Take care of yourself and never forget all the people we've killed together.
Live long and prosper,
~ A million monkeys hitting randomly on typewriters.
P.S. You forgot your dildo at my place when you visited me last Sunday. D.S.
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