Dear Rocky Balboa,
By the time you read this, I'll be tripping on shoelaces (I had no idea that you could get THIS high on them...).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like the world isn't going to end on December 21, 2012 anyway.
I know this might seem like a crappy thing to do
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 — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go.
I want to tell you that I think you are ...unusually odorous, in a good way... sometimes, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a furry,
and I am allergic to air.
You like forcing naughty school children to read the Necronomicon, scratching yourself publicly, 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 on other planets.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me what the ultimate expression of the ongoing cultural and genetic decay of humanity is.
I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches,
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 where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
That'll teach you,
~ Mom.
P.S. You're fired! D.S.
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