Dear John letter

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Wednesday, December 17, 2014  

Dear Person To Whom It May Concern,

By the time you read this, I'll be in your room, stealing your socks. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know what you're thinking: "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?

I know this might seem like an odd twist of fate to 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 — I think. I just need more sex, and for longer than the 3 minutes and 2 inches you're able to provide... or was it the other way around? Anyway...

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 heiress to the throne of Rondark, and I am a member of a religion that has repeatedly confirmed that people like that are going to burn in hell. You like navel lint collecting, lassoing people on subways cars, and gas 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 on different continents. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need a good laugh.

I'd really like us to become a Heathcliff and Catherine-like ghost couple and creep out softhearted onlookers in our restless afterlife, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, unless I was just dreaming.

Take care of yourself and never forget that every time you masturbate, Friedrich Nietzsche kills God.

Good bye and good riddance!,

~ Cato the Elder.

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