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Dear John letter
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Dear Anonymous,
By the time you read this, I'll be burnt at stake by the Spanish Inquisition.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge and my psychiatrist told me not to.
I know this might seem like karmic kannibalism
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly fade into non-existence, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. 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 like an impudent grain of sand, warring against a raging ocean, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are wanted in nineteen states,
and I am stuck in an elevator and slowly succumbing to my own flatulence (since I had nothing but pea soup and brown beans this morning).
You like smoking banana peels, dating circus midgets, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find,
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 species.
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 acquaintances,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, during my opiate daydream earlier today, after which I woke up to the cold and harsh reality again.
Take care of yourself and never forget that you are now statistically 50% less likely to ever find a lasting and fulfilling relationship during your lifetime.
Have a nice day,
~ Hannibal Lecter.
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