Dear future murder victim nr. 63,
By the time you read this, I'll be transferring my consciousness to a member of an extinct race of sentient egg-plants on planet Vollapus 620 million years ago.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer.
I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to assassinate the Pope, 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 to finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!).
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 a good-for-nothing crack whore,
and I am stuck in an elevator with Alessandra Ambrosio (OK, the first part is true, the second is just me daydreaming).
You like having sex in dumpsters, recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, 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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date".
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "two", "inch" and "penis" in my presence.
I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again,
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 to eat your vegetables.
Yippee ki yay, motherfucker,
~ A million monkeys hitting randomly on typewriters.
P.S. You left your Britney Spears album here yesterday. Heck, do you actually listen to that crap? D.S.
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