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Thursday, April 25, 2019  

Dear Penis (with life support system attachment),

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 your feelings are inherently less valuable than mine.

I know this might seem like an unexpected departure to you, seeing as we made all those plans to destroy the universe, 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 plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go.

I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the latest addition to my evergrowing list of people I'm planning to kill, and I am a mother of two-and-a-half. You like toying with mousetraps, dating circus midgets, and dissecting frogs with butterknives, 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 someone mentions the words "two", "inch" and "penis" in my presence.

I'd really like us to become slowly solidified into a kind of buttery jell, 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 the restraining order the judge issued against you.

Fuck you,

~ (name is not important as we are all so much more than our names).