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Dear
By the time you read this, I'll be in pitched battle with God and all his host of angels. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but well... no, I'm not sorry. Lying was always my worst problem with you, and I'm sorry. No. No, I'm not. I know this might seem like a total violation of the laws of physics to you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill any infidel swine who refuses to submit to the ways of the Holy Qur'an and our great prophet Muhammad (peace by upon him), but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain high. 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 a mammal, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am a Mousketeer. You like guessing the weight of elderly women, big butts, and filling guinea pigs with helium, 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 — oh wait, I meant to write "hate" of course. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone mentions the words "two", "inch" and "penis" in my presence. I'd really like us to become engaged in a brutal medieval fight to the death with the good ole' armour, horse and lances (but only if I get to win), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, way back in the 60's during Woodstock. Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you see a rainbow, someone is having gay sex.
~ Your split personality. P.S. I poured some arsenic into your food yesterday. Shows what I think of infidelity, you unfaithful wench! D.S. |