Dear God I can't believe I'll soon be rid of you at long last,
By the time you read this, I'll be stalked by that creep who calls himself Googlebot.I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine.
I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is)to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit Easter Island and go on an egg hunt, 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 a bit of a laugh.
I want to tell you that I think you are going to find out that the anthrax I've contaminated this letter with might be quite unpleasant once it's started to take hold on you, but I don't think we're right for each other.First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nobody,and I am that lonely obsessed stalker who refused to just settle for your autograph.You like forcing naughty school children to read the Necronomicon,recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, andplaying King Kong with dollhouses in toystores (and going to jail for it),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 own mirror images.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need a good laugh.
I'd really like us to become jaded, cynical and bitter in our own different ways,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, nah; I'm just screwing with you.
Take care of yourself and never forget that the xenomorph implanted in your chest is going to erupt and kill you violently within two hours.