Dear Bob,
By the time you read this, I'll be spreading all your diaries around on file-sharing networks (scanners can be so fun sometimes, yah!).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean.
I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to buy a million rubber ducks for all our retirement savings, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you.
I want to tell you that I think you are not as strong in the Force as the Emperor thought, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are not even real, just a Sim character I created last week in The Sims 3,
and I am not.
You like traveling to other cities and showing up uninvited at total strangers' birthday parties, insult sword fighting, and igniting your own fart,
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 other species.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me why I'm such a cold, heartless, cat-owning woman (sniff).
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, before we ended up in Hell together.
Take care of yourself and never forget that you've only got one bullet left, it's going to take more than that to stop me.
God save the Queen,
~ Yet Another Anonymous Sex Partner.
P.S. It was me who assassinated J.F. Kennedy. D.S.
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