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Dear Captain Blackbeard,
By the time you read this, I'll be telling our children why your inches mattered that much. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise. I know this might seem like a big surprise to you, seeing as we made all those plans to sink the British isles, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say. I want to tell you that I think you are ...more than passable, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Nazi war criminal, and I am hypersexual. You like other men, talking like Captain Kirk, and watching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds", 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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I watch Aphex Twin's music video for Windowlicker and the "hot babe" turns around. I'd really like us to become bitter enemies, constantly plotting each other's downfall until one of us (preferably me) succeeds, giving that person (again, preferably me) the opportunity to engage in stereotypical maniacal laughter, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, up until the effect of the morphine wore off. Take care of yourself and never forget to eat your vegetables.
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