Dear John letter

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Monday, November 30, 2015  

Dear hooker I slept with in Vegas,

By the time you read this, I'll be in midtown London on a massive shopping spree with your credit card that I kind of "borrowed" earlier today (the pincode is 8391, isn't it?). I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you win some, you lose some - and in your case, you lose everything.

I know this might seem like a crappy thing to do to you, seeing as we made all those plans to drink the blood of every man, woman and child in Iraq, 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 a bit of a laugh.

I want to tell you that I think you are a Terminator sent from the future to kill me, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nobody, and I am a schoolgirl. You like stomping on turtles after eating mushrooms, playing with your pasta meals until it looks like the Flying Spaghetti Monster before proceeding to eat it, and dissecting frogs with butterknives, 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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me why I'm such a cold, heartless, cat-owning woman (sniff).

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, while we were three thousand miles away from each other.

Take care of yourself and never forget that the xenomorph implanted in your chest is going to erupt and kill you violently within two hours.

Pa Pa,

~ Your Siamese twin.

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