Dear John letter

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Friday, July 1, 2016  

Dear Big Bertha,

By the time you read this, I'll be on a ferry to Mongolia. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like the world isn't going to end on December 21, 2012 anyway.

I know this might seem like a slap in the face to you, seeing as we made all those plans to run the 3rd marathon around the world together (tied together, that is), 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 a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really.

I want to tell you that I think you are my repressed masculine side, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are from another dimension, and I am an amateur weightlifter. You like navel lint collecting, contemplating suicide (but always being so damned indecisive), and sewing extra limbs onto your body, 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 when Hell freezes over. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever the police ask me where I bought the stuff.

I'd really like us to become engaged in a brutal medieval fight to the death with the good ole' armour, horse and lances (but only if I get to win), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, well, no... but no-one else has to know that.

Take care of yourself and never forget the hard work of the ten million chained up monkeys with typewriters that wrote this letter.

Beep beep, Richie,

~ A cast of thousands.

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