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Dear John letter
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Dear disembodied head,
By the time you read this, I'll be aiming at you with a sniper rifle.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise.
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 trade all our remaining STDs even-steven, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now.
I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are so fat that Jupiter orbits around you sometimes,
and I am the one who slipped rohypnol into your Bloody Mary last month.
You like flicking staples at livestock, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans,
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 the police ask me where I bought the stuff.
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, assuming that "good times" is just another way of saying "total suckage".
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you masturbate, Friedrich Nietzsche kills God.
May the Force be with you,
~ Sailor Moon.
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