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 faceto 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), andsewing 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.