Dear Mario,
By the time you read this, I'll be writing to Uncyclopedia.
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 a disappointing turn for the worse
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push you into the sea tied to a large brick, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — I think. 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 the creep who's making all those nightly phone calls where only heavy breathing is heard, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are so fat that Jupiter orbits around you sometimes,
and I am deaf, dumb and blind.
You like bungee jumping from church steeples, putting things on springs, and making faces at babies until they cry,
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 people.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I finally track you down and kill you.
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, during my opiate daydream earlier today, after which I woke up to the cold and harsh reality again.
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you masturbate, Friedrich Nietzsche kills God.
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam,
~ You, before you became amnesiac.
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