By the time you read this, I'll be serving number 977. If you get here quickly enough, you might be able to get in to see me before I wash the stink of manfilth from my body and go home for the night.I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but you weren't at home, and anyways I forgot to bring my AK with me.
I know this might seem like an episode of Days of Our Livesto you, seeing as we made all those plans to trade all our remaining STDs even-steven, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — really. No, really. Those are teardrops on the letter, and not spittle from laughter.I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say.
I want to tell you that I think you are on my long list of middle-rated and easily forgotten ex's, but I don't think we're right for each other.First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pederast,and I am scared of donuts.You like navel lint collecting,playing with your pasta meals until it looks like the Flying Spaghetti Monster before proceeding to eat it, 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 Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever it is that I need to confess my most heinous sins on my deathbed.
I'd really like us to become born-again strangers,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 all the people we've killed together.
~ The queen of Doggerland.
P.S. You are the one billionth person to read this letter. Click here to receive your prize! D.S.