Dear John letter

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Saturday, October 25, 2014  

Dear future murder victim nr. 53,

By the time you read this, I'll be at one with the universe. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean.

I know this might seem like karmic kannibalism to you, seeing as we made all those plans to continue grossing out teens and old people with our cherished "skinny dip and snogging" expeditions to the fountain in the public square, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people — and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category. I just need to enter "4 8 15 16 23 42" into my command prompt every 108th minute.

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 a balloon animal fan, and I am pregnant. You like projectile vomiting, harassing sheep until they explode, and finding out a random victim's e-mail address and subscribe it to every advertisement letter you can find, 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 in Mushroom Kingdom. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need a good laugh.

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, my left hand and I.

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.

Stop by sometime,

~ Your sycophantic lodger whom you will never be rid of.

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