Dear Sex toy,
By the time you read this, I'll be stuck in a timeloop with no hope of escape.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise.
I know this might seem like a slap in the face
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 — but I thought that since I've now finally managed to track you down, it might be good manners to at least write one last good-bye letter to you before I kill you. I just need more length from you than I'm getting, and let's face it — you're shrinking with age.
I want to tell you that I think you are ...more than passable, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are so fat that Jupiter orbits around you sometimes,
and I am a schoolgirl.
You like groping fresh produce, carving CD's into lethal shurikens with which to... kill people, and watching animal porn,
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 smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again.
I'd really like us to become supervillains and plot to conquer the world together (after which I will kill you as there can only be one true Master),
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, I think.
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
Fuck off,
~ Concerned Citizen.
P.S. You left your Britney Spears album here yesterday. Heck, do you actually listen to that crap? D.S.
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