Dear John letter

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Friday, March 24, 2017  

Dear Sex toy,

By the time you read this, I'll be trying to cut off my own legs with a toothbrush (just to see if it can be done). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like I'm not going to kill you on Saturday anyway.

I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grand-parents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — sorry that I didn't take the chance to get rid of you last month, but I promise I'll make up for it the next time we meet. I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say.

I want to tell you that I think you are the unidentified person I ran over with my truck at 10:40 P.M. yesterday, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a good-for-nothing crack whore, and I am the main character in a really crappy pulp horror novel about rabid watermelons. You like imitating 50s actors while shoe shopping, peeling watermelons, and smelling your fingers, 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 virtualized Sim replicas of each other. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my house is in need of some serious cleaning up.

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, five past seven on Sunday November 3rd 2003 springs to mind, for instance.

Take care of yourself and never forget that it's going to take more than a restraining order to keep me away from our children — they are mine too and I will not be denied them.

Caió,

~ Cato the Elder.

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