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Dear all-boobs-and-no-brains,
By the time you read this, I'll be serving number 977. If you get here quickly enough, you might be able to get in to see me before I wash the stink of manfilth from my body and go home for the night. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option. I know this might seem like an Uncyclopedia in-joke to you, seeing as we made all those plans to vacation in the Ivory Coast, and smuggle bits of it home to sell on the black market, 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 find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly. 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 the only one in the world who actually thinks Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer are funny, and I am angry. You like navel lint collecting, gay midgets, and accusing comatose patients of laziness, 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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "ugly", "useless" and/or "stupid" in my presence. I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, while we were three thousand miles away from each other. Take care of yourself and never forget the restraining order the judge issued against you.
~ Sailor Moon. |