Dear Acquaintance,
By the time you read this, I'll be wiretapping your telephone calls.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head.
I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to cannibalize your family, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway...
I want to tell you that I think you are in need of some serious physical therapy against your hideous acid breath, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are one of Evil Bert's sinister henchmen,
and I am disappointed.
You like stamp collecting, juggling chainsaws, and playing King Kong with dollhouses in toystores (and going to jail for it),
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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my house is in need of some serious cleaning up.
I'd really like us to become theatrical actors in a Romeo & Juliet play, except we'll kill ourselves for real in the end just for the sake of realism,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, or so we'll pretend.
Take care of yourself and never forget to double-bag "Uncle Willy" from now on.
Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul,
~ Cato the Elder.
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