Dear John letter

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Sunday, November 19, 2017  

Dear Miss Universe,

By the time you read this, I'll be a mother. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine.

I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe to you, seeing as we made all those plans to continue grossing out teens and old people with our cherished "skinny dip and snogging" expeditions to the fountain in the public square, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place.

I want to tell you that I think you are on my long list of middle-rated and easily forgotten ex's, 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 fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money. You like attacking clergymen, pushing unsuspecting tourists off from very high places and watching them fall, 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 each other's pets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm having another period of severe psychotic breakdown.

I'd really like us to become an African-American comedy duo, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I assume, in some other more cheerful reality among the infinite number of alternate universes out there.

Take care of yourself and never forget that the world is going to end unless you enter the code "4 8 15 16 23 42" into the micro-computer every 108th minute.

Pa Pa,

~ Hannibal Lecter.

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