Dear pointless entity,
By the time you read this, I'll be counting to one googolplex (and I'm only at 43333 at the moment).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know what you're thinking: "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?
I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to throw the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom in Mordor, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly.
I want to tell you that I think you are a fucking ugly bitch, and I want to stab you to death, and then play around with your blood, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally,
and I am on my own plane of psychological existence.
You like stomping on turtles after eating mushrooms, putting things on springs, and writing love letters to Bob Saget,
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 each other sometime in the next millennia.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need another scullery maid.
I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, with that goat up in the Himalayas.
Take care of yourself and never forget to have your pets sprayed and neutered.
Sieg Heil,
~ Anonymous.
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