By the time you read this, I'll be converting my house into an undead bastion.I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like the world isn't going to end on December 21, 2012 anyway.
I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of eroticto you, seeing as we made all those plans to terrorize the elderly couple that lives down the road, 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 more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say.
I want to tell you that I think you are perfectly looking, at least according to Neptunian standards, but I don't think we're right for each other.First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nobody,and I am the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons.You like projectile vomiting,pretending to be Captain America, andgas 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 each other's pets.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm having another period of severe psychotic breakdown.
I'd really like us to become that kind of insufferable cinemagoers who've read the plot in advance and sits and yell out spoilers throughout the film to the annoyance of everyone else,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, my left hand and I.
Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you wish for coal as a Christmas present, you'll get porridge instead.