Dear John letter
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Thursday, March 5, 2015
Dear Sperm Donor,
By the time you read this, I'll be singing show tunes in the shower while members of the New York Yankees take turns exfoliating my buttocks with a loofah sponge. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option.
I know this might seem like an unexpected departure to you, seeing as we made all those plans to push the boundaries of human genetics past the point of good taste by procreating, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter. I just need to put this facade you've been living to an end, before I run out of script material. Ghostwriters cost a fortune.
I want to tell you that I think you're strangely charismatic, considering your freakishly odd appearance, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You're a pedophile, and I'm vastly less intelligent than that. You like laying on the floor with all the lights off, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and writing love letters to Bob Saget, 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 it is that I need to confess my most heinous sins on my deathbed.
I'd really like us to become "bitter enemies, constantly plotting each other's downfall until one of us (preferably me) succeeds, giving that person (again, preferably me) the opportunity to engage in stereotypical maniacal laughter", if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least while we were in separate cells at the police station.
Take care of yourself and never forget I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
~ Sheila (my street name).