Dear John letter

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Wednesday, January 17, 2018  

Dear Flavour of the Month,

By the time you read this, I'll be doing my "happy dance" naked, on the side of the M25 motorway. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge and my psychiatrist told me not to.

I know this might seem like a letter of indulgence to you, seeing as we made all those plans to infiltrate the "Red Cross" organization and shamelessly purloin their charity funds, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place.

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 an atheist, and I am into bodysurfing. You like smoking banana peels, stabbing yourself with carrots, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find, 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'm solving a crossword and have to come up with a synonym for the word "stupid".

I'd really like us to become supervillains and plot to conquer the world together (after which I will kill you as there can only be one true Master), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, nah; I'm just screwing with you.

Take care of yourself and never forget to eat your vegetables.

Bye,

~ Norman Bates.

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