Dear Cthulhu,
By the time you read this, I'll be transferring the last of our mutual savings to a bank account in Geneva.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but this world simply isn't big enough for the both of us.
I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is)
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to cannibalize your family, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs.
I want to tell you that I think you are evil incarnate, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are not even real, just a Sim character I created last week in The Sims 3,
and I am a Mousketeer.
You like urine sample collecting, huffing kittens, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans,
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 in Hell, after killing each other.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever the police ask me where I bought the stuff.
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 during those many hours of drug and alcohol induced unconsciousness.
Take care of yourself and never forget that your psychiatrist thinks you're a jerk too.
Toodle Pip,
~ (Jenny is being disconnected, so don't try calling).
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