Dear John letter

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Hand pencil
Sunday, July 31, 2016  

Dear Lloyd Simcoe,

By the time you read this, I'll be on a pilgrimage to Sears to buy "sporting goods" for my weekend adventure with the male cast members of "My Name Is Earl". I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my eyes have yet to fully recover from last week when your wig fell off.

I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to alphabetize our combined compact disc collections someday, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — but another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour. 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 the unidentified person I ran over with my truck at 10:40 P.M. yesterday, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are committed, literally, and I am deaf, dumb and blind. You like attacking clergymen, bobbing for old tires in the East River, 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 on other planets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again.

I'd really like us to become the de facto lead couple in one of those crappy never ending sitcoms that plays annoying canned laughter after every damn sentence, be it funny or not, 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 time when I showed everyone a picture of your penis. That was funny.

Stop by sometime,

~ Bruce Wayne.

P.S. You're fired! D.S.

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