Dear "Mr. It was only a dream" (as my psychiatrist insists I refer to you these days) ,
By the time you read this, I'll be relocated to a secret tropical hide-out, drinking fruit drinks and living a life in luxury for the money I drained from your bank account this morning (so long sucker, HAHAHAHAHA!!!).I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I finally got around to reading your "poems" this morning, and I figure that this is better than a bullet in the head.
I know this might seem like an omitted chapter from Dante´s Divine Comedyto 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 another officer is at the door - I'll write more in an hour.I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say.
I want to tell you that I think you are my personal Jiminy Cricket, but I don't think we're right for each other.First of all, we're not really compatible. You are possessed by Pazuzu,and I am enigmatic.You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts,talking like Captain Kirk, andwriting love letters to Bob Saget,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 again, but only if we're re-incarnated into each other's bodies and I get to be "you" next time. Oh yes.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm having another period of severe psychotic breakdown.
I'd really like us to become partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I think.
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.