Dear John letter

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Monday, February 20, 2017  

Dear Lloyd Simcoe,

By the time you read this, I'll be a mother. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with all the botox in your face, I might as well be fraternizing with mannequins instead. At least those don't have every STD known to man...

I know this might seem like an unexpected departure to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly fade into non-existence, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — but I've been stuck in this nightmare world for months now, and writing this letter is my last chance of a wake up call. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now.

I want to tell you that I think you are a..well...um...okay, nice...yeah...maybe, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the demi-duchess of Kumswalla, and I am deaf, dumb and blind. You like having sex in dumpsters, juggling chainsaws, and recommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups, 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 each other as soon as possible, since the Internet connection on my computer isn't working, and I figured I could browse through your computer during our "date". 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 people that pretend they never dated, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you're just a figment of my imagination.

Take care of yourself and never forget your true place in life (which is at my feet, groveling in abject obedience).

I hope you get some sick,

~ George Philipp Telemann.

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