By the time you read this, I'll be sipping butanemartinis on the way to Nicaragua.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 very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is)to you, seeing as we made all those plans to terrorize the elderly couple that lives down the road, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — but I thought that since I've now finally managed to track you down, it might be good manners to at least write one last good-bye letter to you before I kill you.I just need to engage in homicidal behavior on a massive scale. It can not be corrected but I have no other way to fulfill my needs.
I want to tell you that I think you are Jimbo, 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 fucked-up loser who only likes to hang around you because of your money.You like forcing naughty school children to read the Necronomicon,putting things on springs, anddisturbing annual sci-fi conventions with whistles and cymbals,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 a neutron star.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever my girlfriends and I are trading stories on our worst sexual experiences.
I'd really like us to become acquaintances,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least before we met.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I still have your diary and can at any time mail the most embarrassing parts (like the chapter about the summer of -04) of it to The New York Times.