Dear John letter

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Saturday, February 13, 2016  

Dear Lloyd Simcoe,

By the time you read this, I'll be trampled to death during the New York City Marathon. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but well... no, I'm not sorry. Lying was always my worst problem with you, and I'm sorry. No. No, I'm not.

I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of erotic to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grand-parents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain high. 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 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 nothing, and I am into bodysurfing. You like guessing the weight of elderly women, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and feeding rice to sea gulls, 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 — oh wait, I meant to write "hate" of course. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I go on another nightly tour to quench my vampiric thirst for human blood.

I'd really like us to become Siamese twins (we might have to undergo an extensive surgery for that though), if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least while we were in separate cells at the police station.

Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you live, your name and what you look like, so beware.

Pa Pa,

~ Conomor the Cursed.

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