Dear whatever your name may be,
By the time you read this, I'll be fucking your sister.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but to be honest, I'd be more sorry if I were to stay.
I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kidnap a first-grade school class together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place.
I want to tell you that I think you are really quite adequate, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a balloon animal fan,
and I am not the type of person to be running around screaming that I have a "relationship".
You like flicking staples at livestock, gay midgets, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés,
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 other people.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "two", "inch" and "penis" in my presence.
I'd really like us to become permanently estranged,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, well, no... but no-one else has to know that.
Take care of yourself and never forget that the xenomorph implanted in your chest is going to erupt and kill you violently within two hours.
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam,
~ The Samaritans.
P.S. Remember to drink the nut-flavored tea I poured you today. D.S.
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