By the time you read this, I'll be chasing your helpless grandma around with a huge fucking monster truck.I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but one of us has to go, and the strychnine I've been adding to your Corn Flakes doesn't seem to be working.
I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universeto you, seeing as we made all those plans to buy a million rubber ducks for all our retirement savings, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good.I just need to finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!).
I want to tell you that I think you are ...unusually odorous, in a good way... sometimes, but I don't think we're right for each other.First of all, we're not really compatible. You are wanted in nineteen states,and I am a nun.You like wearing my knickers on your noggin,big butts, andpracticing surgery on household pests,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 at Disneyland.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I assassinate an infidel.
I'd really like us to become Siamese twins (we might have to undergo an extensive surgery for that though),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 every time you wish for coal as a Christmas present, you'll get porridge instead.