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Dear <insert name here>,
By the time you read this, I'll be eating your liver with fava beans and a nice chianti. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine. I know this might seem like an Uncyclopedia in-joke to you, seeing as we made all those plans to adopt a child from a third world country for media publicity, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go. I want to tell you that I think you are the true identity of the Zodiac Killer, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pedophile, and I am a mother of two-and-a-half. You like traveling to other cities and showing up uninvited at total strangers' birthday parties, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and you cannot lie, the other brothers can't deny, when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get sprung, 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 I do sadistic things to your digital duplicate in The Sims 3. I'd really like us to become Siamese twins (we might have to undergo an extensive surgery for that though), 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 each day of your life may be the last as long as I'm around.
~ Lara Bingle. P.S. It was me who raped your little sister last summer. I hope you'll one day forgive me. D.S. |