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Dear Mulder and Scully,
By the time you read this, I'll be a mother. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head. I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Amnesty International" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, 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 so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a furry, and I am a mother of two-and-a-half. You like trying to fit inside sewer drains, big butts, and smelling other people's fingers, 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 virtualized Sim replicas of each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone jokingly claims that there's a monster standing behind me. I'd really like us to become road sweepers or something, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, up until the effect of the morphine wore off. Take care of yourself and never forget the restraining order the judge issued against you.
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