Dear Archchancellor,
By the time you read this, I'll be in jail. Three hots and a cot, and the judge says I can refuse to see anyone I want, including you. Finally.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer.
I know this might seem like a big sick demented joke in a vortex of meaninglessness
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to vacation in the Ivory Coast, and smuggle bits of it home to sell on the black market, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly.
I want to tell you that I think you are dumb as a rock, 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 Republican.
You like projectile vomiting, masturbating to gardening shows, 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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date".
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I assassinate an infidel.
I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, before you decided to become yourself and get to be so much of a stuck-up prig.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm no longer in a coma.
Tonight we dine in Hell,
~ Your abusive stepfather.
P.S. They're coming to take me away! D.S.
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