Dear Jimbo,
By the time you read this, I'll be eating myself to death at a McDonald's restaurant.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine.
I know this might seem like an unexpected departure
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly cannibalize each other one bite at a time, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category. I just need to go to the moon or a gay retared place.
I want to tell you that I think you are a real pain in the ass, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up,
and I am a nun.
You like having sex in dumpsters, talking like Captain Kirk, and gas tungsten arc welding,
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 someone mentions the words "two", "inch" and "penis" in my presence.
I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, five past seven on Sunday November 3rd 2003 springs to mind, for instance.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
Hasta la Vista Baby!,
~ DJ Pie Saftey.
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