Dear Rocky Balboa,
By the time you read this, I'll be hiding under your bed with a butcher's knife.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine.
I know this might seem like I'm into polygamy or something just because I have five wives at the same time, but Elisab... Rebecca... umm, I mean Sarah, you're the only one who truly matters, I swear. Surely our time together must still mean something
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to blow up the moon together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really.
I want to tell you that I think you are the unidentified person I ran over with my truck at 10:40 P.M. yesterday, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the latest addition to my evergrowing list of people I'm planning to kill,
and I am that lonely obsessed stalker who refused to just settle for your autograph.
You like sucking off the black guy that mows your lawn, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, 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 virtualized Sim replicas of each other.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever Saturn orbits Pluto.
I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell,
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 how much lower your reputation will slip as soon as I publish this on my blog.
I hate you,
~ Name and address withheld.
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