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Dear insignificant other,
By the time you read this, I'll be spreading all your diaries around on file-sharing networks (scanners can be so fun sometimes, yah!). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my sadistic urges have become completely uncontrollable, and I don’t think I can see you again without having to torture you. I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to hack into Pentagon's databases and expose the alien cover-up in Roswell, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time. I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are a mammal, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are under surveillance by the CIA, and I am the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons. You like wearing my knickers on your noggin, huffing kittens, and gas tungsten arc welding, 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 just as long as you are willing to spend half your life hanging by your pinkie toes, for that's the type of torture I have planned for you.. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I assassinate an infidel. I'd really like us to become friends, but I think that won't happen. I'd rather not speak to you again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I think. Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm much happier without you.
~ Hannibal Lecter. |