By the time you read this, I'll be heading towards Mordor in a suicide attempt to throw the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom.I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge and my psychiatrist told me not to.
I know this might seem like an unexpected departureto you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter.I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly.
I want to tell you that I think you are ...good at Scrabble, if slightly obsessed with it, 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 the one who slipped rohypnol into your Bloody Mary last month.You like fondling barnyard animals,painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, andfinding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find,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 different continents.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 nihilistic Al-Qaedaterrorists and blow up everything that moves,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, even if they only lasted a few microseconds.
Take care of yourself and never forget to double-bag "Uncle Willy" from now on.