Dear John letter

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Saturday, August 23, 2014  

Dear Passing Fancy,

By the time you read this, I'll be burnt at stake by the Spanish Inquisition. 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 a total violation of the laws of physics 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 length from you than I'm getting, and let's face it — you're shrinking with age.

I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are so fat that Jupiter orbits around you sometimes, and I am that lonely obsessed stalker who refused to just settle for your autograph. You like playing Worms 3D, tripping on your own shoelaces on purpose just so you can blame the jews for it, and genitally piercing unsuspecting strangers in unemployment line queues, 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 everyone else in the world, just to find out the answer — or at least I should, you have no hope on that score. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need another scullery maid.

I'd really like us to become people that ignore each other in public, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before we ended up in Hell together.

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.

Fuck off,

~ The itsy bitsy spider.

P.S. Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho. D.S.

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