Dear Azathoth,
By the time you read this, I'll be abducted by aliens and half way to Zeta II Reticuli.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I don't think I could restrain myself from laughing about what I saw last night.
I know this might seem like I'm into polygamy or something just because I have five wives at the same time, but Elisab... Rebecca... umm, I mean Sarah, you're the only one who truly matters, I swear. Surely our time together must still mean something
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to destroy the universe, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule.
I want to tell you that I think you are perfectly looking, at least according to Neptunian standards, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a balloon animal fan,
and I am a Mousketeer.
You like sprinting through morning traffic while on fire, scratching yourself publicly, and sewing extra limbs onto your body,
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 to tell my side of the story on Jerry Springer.
I'd really like us to become people that pretend they never dated,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, at least when we turned the clock forward a few hours and then pretended that something nice happened during that time (whereas nothing at all happened, really).
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
Affectionally yours,
~ Sailor Moon.
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