Dear all-boobs-and-no-brains,
By the time you read this, I'll be chasing your helpless grandma around with a huge fucking monster truck.
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 an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedy
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but honestly, putting my hamster in the microwave was too much. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place.
I want to tell you that I think you are a..well...um...okay, nice...yeah...maybe, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the only one in the world who actually thinks Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer are funny,
and I am Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.
You like laying on the floor with all the lights off, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and smelling other people's fingers,
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 just as long as you are willing to spend half your life hanging by your pinkie toes, for that's the type of torture I have planned for you..
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I practice knife stabbing on mannequin dolls.
I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, while we were three thousand miles away from each other.
Take care of yourself and never forget our honeymoon on Jupiter.
Toodles,
~ Sailor Moon.
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