Dear John letter

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Thursday, September 29, 2016  

Dear whatever your name may be,

By the time you read this, I'll be sneaking destroying angels into the button mushroom meal you'll be served within 5 minutes. 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 , well... inevitable, really, 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 — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. 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 composed mainly of various carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, iron, copper, magnesium, sulfur, calcium, potassium, iodine, sodium and silicon compounds (well, duh...), but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up, and I am disappointed. You like other men, insult sword fighting, and gas tungsten arc welding, 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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I sharpen my hunting knife out in the garage.

I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, five past seven on Sunday November 3rd 2003 springs to mind, for instance.

Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm no longer in a coma.

Living is easy with eyes closed,

~ George Philipp Telemann.

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