By the time you read this, I'll be fatally assaulted by rabid squirrels.I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with the restraining order and everything, I was scared to use the phone again.
I know this might seem like a kick in the nutsto you, seeing as we made all those plans to push you into the sea tied to a large brick, 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 a bit of a laugh.
I want to tell you that I think you are a fucking ugly bitch, and I want to stab you to death, and then play around with your blood, but I don't think we're right for each other.First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nobody,and I am pregnant.You like sprinting through morning traffic while on fire,painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, andgas tungsten arc welding,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 for the hell of it. It's not like we don't both have herpes.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "promiscuous".
I'd really like us to become born-again strangers,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before the psychatrist told me that you were my split personality all along.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I'm being entirely serious.