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 I've misplaced my copy of Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" and I had to improvise.
I know this might seem like a crappy thing to doto you, seeing as we made all those plans to blow up the moon together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — well; not really. I just thought it'd sound good.I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly.
I want to tell you that I think you are perfectly looking, at least according to Neptunian standards, but I don't think we're right for each other.First of all, we're not really compatible. You are under surveillance by the CIA,and I am pregnant.You like caressing lamp accessories,talking like Captain Kirk, andwatching DaxFlame on YouTube while singing "Lucy in the Sky of Diamonds",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 everyone else in the world, just to find out the answer — or at least I should, you have no hope on that score.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I spy on you and your secret lover with the telescope from the treehouse across the street.
I'd really like us to become road sweepers or something,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, up until the effect of the morphine wore off.
Take care of yourself and never forget that despite all the nonsense I've written in this letter, I'm still going to track you down and kill you.