Dear God I can't believe I'll soon be rid of you at long last,
By the time you read this, I'll be having future visions of myself in April 29, 2010.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise.
I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts
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 — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. 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 ...unusually odorous, in a good way... sometimes, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the disembodied head of Patrick Duffy,
and I am really your split personality, writing letters to itself and pretending to be an actual person.
You like flicking staples at livestock, juggling chainsaws, and disturbing annual sci-fi conventions with whistles and cymbals,
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 other species.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "anorexia", "bulimia" and/or "starvation" in my presence.
I'd really like us to become nihilistic Al-Qaeda terrorists and blow up everything that moves,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before I decided to read through your diary last week.
Take care of yourself and never forget that you are now statistically 50% less likely to ever find a lasting and fulfilling relationship during your lifetime.
Bye,
~ Your alternate reality granddaughter.
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