Dear "Mr. It was only a dream" (as my psychiatrist insists I refer to you these days) ,
By the time you read this, I'll be saving a bunch of money on my car insurance by switching to Gecko.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean.
I know this might seem like a cowardly way of telling you that I ran over your mom with fatal outcome just 10 minutes ago
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to spend at least more than two hours together, 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 finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!).
I want to tell you that I think you are exceptionally undistinguished, in a boring, non-threatening way, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a satanist,
and I am on drugs.
You like caressing lamp accessories, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and genitally piercing unsuspecting strangers in unemployment line queues,
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 people without AIDS.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need to steal borrow some cash from someone.
I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, my left hand and I.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I still have your diary and can at any time mail the most embarrassing parts (like the chapter about the summer of -04) of it to The New York Times.
I hate you,
~ Brother Eggs-over-easy.
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