Dear Rocky Balboa,
By the time you read this, I'll be trampled to death during the New York City Marathon.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your voice is so grating that another few phone calls from you would have left me deaf for life by the end of the year.
I know this might seem like a bit of a shock
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to cannibalize your family, 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 need need need need... well; I can't quite remember.
I want to tell you that I think you are composed mainly of various carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, iron, copper, magnesium, sulfur, calcium, potassium, iodine, sodium and silicon compounds (well, duh...), 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 the one who slipped rohypnol into your Bloody Mary last month.
You like other men, tripping on your own shoelaces on purpose just so you can blame the jews for it, and belly-button sniffing,
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 people without AIDS.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need a good laugh.
I'd really like us to become permanently estranged,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you were my split personality all along.
Take care of yourself and never forget the restraining order the judge issued against you.
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam,
~ Your very dissatisfied penis.
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