By the time you read this, I'll be on a train to Fiji.I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer.
I know this might seem like a big sick demented joke in a vortex of meaninglessnessto you, seeing as we made all those plans to kill any infidel swine who refuses to submit to the ways of the Holy Qur'an and our great prophet Muhammad (peace by upon him), but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good.I just need to finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!).
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 from another dimension,and I am a fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money.You like flaying lambs,playing with your pasta meals until it looks like the Flying Spaghetti Monster before proceeding to eat it, andaccusing comatose patients of lazyness,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 virtualized Sim replicas of each other.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I've poured rohypnol into your cocktail again.
I'd really like us to become people that ignore each other in public,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 have your pets sprayed and neutered.