Dear Flavour of the Month,
By the time you read this, I'll be relocated to a secret tropical hide-out, drinking fruit drinks and living a life in luxury for the money I drained from your bank account this morning (so long sucker, HAHAHAHAHA!!!).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine.
I know this might seem like a disappointing turn for the worse
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill any infidel swine who refuses to submit to the ways of the Holy Qur'an and our great prophet Muhammad (peace by upon him), but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour. I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute.
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 a pederast,
and I am the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons.
You like bothering foraging bears, insult sword fighting, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés,
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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again.
I'd really like us to become people that ignore each other in public,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul,
~ That old woman next door.