By the time you read this, I'll be telling our children why your inches mattered that much.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 buy a million rubber ducks for all our retirement savings, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter.I just need more cowbell.
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 a blathering windbag who needs a nice big cup of shut the fuck up,and I am a nun.You like beating yourself up in front of a mirror,filling stuffed animals with ice cream, andsewing extra limbs onto your body,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 Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun.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 that kind of insufferable cinemagoers who've read the plot in advance and sits and yell out spoilers throughout the film to the annoyance of everyone else,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least when we turned the clock forward a few hours and then pretended that something nice happened during that time (whereas nothing at all happened, really).