By the time you read this, I'll be a mother.I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option.
I know this might seem like a sudden turn of eventsto you, seeing as we made all those plans to burn down our neighbor's house, 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 nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you.
I want to tell you that I think you are the creep who's making all those nightly phone calls where only heavy breathing is heard, but I don't think we're right for each other.First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a Democrat,and I am the one who slipped rohypnol into your Bloody Mary last month.You like fondling barnyard animals,scratching yourself publicly, andplaying King Kong with dollhouses in toystores (and going to jail for it),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 people without AIDS.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I practice knife stabbing on mannequin dolls.
I'd really like us to become people that pretend not to know each other,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before I decided to read through your diary last week.
Take care of yourself and never forget that your psychiatrist thinks you're a jerk too.