Dear John letter

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Saturday, April 25, 2015  

Dear Rocky Balboa,

By the time you read this, I'll be heading towards Mordor in a suicide attempt to throw the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge and my psychiatrist told me not to.

I know this might seem like an unexpected departure to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. 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 ...good at Scrabble, if slightly obsessed with it, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are wanted in nineteen states, and I am the one who slipped rohypnol into your Bloody Mary last month. You like fondling barnyard animals, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find, 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 different continents. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I see a couple screaming at each other in public.

I'd really like us to become nihilistic Al-Qaeda terrorists and blow up everything that moves, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, even if they only lasted a few microseconds.

Take care of yourself and never forget to double-bag "Uncle Willy" from now on.

Fuck you,

~ Everyone else.

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