By the time you read this, I'll be counting to one googolplex (and I'm only at 77777 at the moment).I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine.
I know this might seem like a letter of indulgenceto you, seeing as we made all those plans to alphabetize our combined compact disc collections someday, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category.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 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 a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up,and I am Republican.You like projectile vomiting,filling stuffed animals with ice cream, andwatching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds",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 on other planets.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm too lazy to clean my dishes by myself.
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, at least before we met.