Dear Mr. President,
By the time you read this, I'll be in jail. Three hots and a cot, and the judge says I can refuse to see anyone I want, including you. Finally.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know what you're thinking: "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?
I know this might seem like karmic kannibalism
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grand-parents to give them a big ol' kiss, 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 to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute.
I want to tell you that I think you are the creep who's making all those nightly phone calls where only heavy breathing is heard, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are possessed by Pazuzu,
and I am allergic to air.
You like other men, scratching yourself publicly, and gas 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 our own mirror images.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I throw up.
I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, assuming that "good times" is just another way of saying "total suckage".
Take care of yourself and never forget that everything in this letter was a lie.
Respect to the man in the ice cream van,
~ You, before you became amnesiac.
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