I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is)to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly cannibalize each other one bite at a time, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well, sort of, at least, kind of, maybe, a little...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 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 committed, literally,and I am into bodysurfing.You like flicking staples at livestock,gay midgets, andgenitally piercing unsuspecting strangers in unemploymentline 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 — oh wait, I meant to write "hate" of course.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I make additions to my personal list of people I intend to kill.
I'd really like us to become that kind of insufferable cinemagoers who've read the plot in advance and sits and yell out spoilers throughout the film to the annoyance of everyone else,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, or so we'll pretend.
Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).