Dear John letter

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Sunday, April 19, 2015  

Dear pointless entity,

By the time you read this, I'll be dead; not surprising, since I surgically implanted this letter into my groin. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with the restraining order and everything, I was scared to use the phone again.

I know this might seem like a crappy thing to do to you, seeing as we made all those plans to adopt a child from a third world country for media publicity, 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 more out of this relationship. Financially, emotionally, sexually, intellectually. Everythingually.

I want to tell you that I think you are not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a card-carrying member of the Hair Club for Men, and I am a member of a religion that has repeatedly confirmed that people like that are going to burn in hell. You like flicking staples at livestock, dating circus midgets, 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 in Hell, after killing each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I see a couple screaming at each other in public.

I'd really like us to become born-again strangers, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least while we were in separate cells at the police station.

Take care of yourself and never forget that I have your son and will kill him unless you transfer five million dollars to my bank account by next Thursday.

Seize the day (since tomorrow will be your last day alive),

~ Princess Peach.

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