Dear John Malkovich,
By the time you read this, I'll be fucking your sister.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my sadistic urges have become completely uncontrollable, and I don’t think I can see you again without having to torture you.
I know this might seem like , well... inevitable, really,
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Amnesty International" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule.
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 an atheist,
and I am the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons.
You like trying to fit inside sewer drains, big butts, and biking against red light at rush hour,
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 wiretap your telephone calls.
I'd really like us to become friends, but I think that won't happen. I rather not speak to you again,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, during my opiate daydream earlier today, after which I woke up to the cold and harsh reality again.
Take care of yourself and never forget how much lower your reputation will slip as soon as I publish this on my blog.
Respect to the man in the ice cream van,
~ Captain Obvious.
P.S. That was an Amanita virosa (destroying angel) you ate yesterday, not a button mushroom as I thought. Oops, I guess I'm really bad with mushrooms... D.S.
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