Dear Gordon Freeman,
By the time you read this, I'll be mutated into something unrecognizable.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your voice is so grating that another few phone calls from you would have left me deaf for life by the end of the year.
I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grand-parents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now.
I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up,
and I am not you.
You like imitating 50s actors while shoe shopping, masturbating to gardening shows, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups,
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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date".
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm too lazy to clean my dishes by myself.
I'd really like us to become Siamese twins (we might have to undergo an extensive surgery for that though),
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, with that goat up in the Himalayas.
Take care of yourself and never forget to double-bag "Uncle Willy" from now on.
May the Force be with you,
~ [Insert name of author here].
P.S. It was me who raped your little sister last summer. I hope you'll one day forgive me. D.S.
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