Dear disembodied head,
By the time you read this, I'll be very relieved.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I don't think I could restrain myself from laughing about what I saw last night.
I know this might seem like a disappointing turn for the worse
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grand-parents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need more length from you than I'm getting, and let's face it — you're shrinking with age.
I want to tell you that I think you are a real pain in the ass, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Democrat,
and I am Republican.
You like to sabotage ice hockey matches by repeatedly throwing out extra pucks onto the rink, filling stuffed animals with ice cream, and filling guinea pigs with helium,
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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one.
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 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, with that goat up in the Himalayas.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I have your son and will kill him unless you transfer five million dollars to my bank account by next Thursday.
That'll teach you,
~ (name is not important as we are all so much more than our names).
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