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Dear Acquaintance,
By the time you read this, I'll be on a murderous rampage downtown. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer. I know this might seem like a slap in the face to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grandparents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. I want to tell you that I think you are a fucking ugly bitch, and I want to stab you to death, and then play around with your blood, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the flesh and blood scion of the Devil himself, and I am vastly less intelligent than that. You like navel lint collecting, big butts, 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 again, but only if we're re-incarnated into each other's bodies and I get to be "you" next time. Oh yes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I completely run out of other, far more important things to think about. I'd really like us to become people that pretend they never dated, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychiatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination. Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
~ Your intestinal parasite. P.S. You're fired! D.S. |