Dear "Mr. It was only a dream" (as my psychiatrist insists I refer to you these days) ,
By the time you read this, I'll be trying to cut off my own legs with a toothbrush (just to see if it can be done).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but uh, well... now what was it again... (God dammit) Oh, yes, I was going to write to you because... because... ummmhhh... (hang on a minute)... I seem to have lost my memory so I'll just improvise a letter with no true meaning from now on, if you don't mind (which you'll probably do).
I know this might seem like an odd twist of fate
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to adopt a child from a third world country for media publicity, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category. I just need more out of this relationship. Financially, emotionally, sexually, intellectually. Everythingually.
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 a card-carrying member of the Hair Club for Men,
and I am an Uncyclopedia in-joke.
You like bungee jumping from church steeples, scratching yourself publicly, and smelling other people's fingers,
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 but only so I'll get another shot at killing your for real.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm solving a crossword and have to come up with a synonym for the word "stupid".
I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, pretending we're screwing someone else.
Take care of yourself and never forget to write down the number of every donkey cart that hits you.
Yippee ki yay, motherfucker,
~ The unmentionable one.
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