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Dear Acquaintance,
By the time you read this, I'll be howling strangely in the streaming moonlight. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but enough is enough. I've HAD it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane! 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 burn down our neighbor's house, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little... I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now. I want to tell you that I think you are ...alive and breathing, 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 a fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money. You like toying with mousetraps, lassoing people on subway cars, and dissecting frogs with butterknives, 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 on other planets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever a six-legged rhinoceros flies by. I'd really like us to become road sweepers or something, 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 that the xenomorph implanted in your chest is going to erupt and kill you violently within two hours.
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