By the time you read this, I'll be burnt at stake by the Spanish Inquisition.I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but my eyes have yet to fully recover from last week when your wig fell off.
I know this might seem like a disappointing turn for the worseto you, seeing as we made all those plans to blow up the moon together, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — it's just a shame I waited so long to do it, and wasted so much of my valuable time.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 so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, but I don't think we're right for each other.First of all, we're not really compatible. You are an epic fail,and I am enigmatic.You like stamp collecting,recording your own toilet visits and sharing it on file sharing networks as MP3's wrongfully named as famous songs, andsmelling other people's fingers,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 but only so I'll get another shot at killing your for real.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again.
I'd really like us to become theatrical actors in a Romeo & Juliet play, except we'll kill ourselves for real in the end just for the sake of realism,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, which lasted until you unexpectedly woke up from your coma.
Take care of yourself and never forget that I have the sniper rifle, and I know how to use it.
~ Princess Peach.
P.S. It was me who assassinated J.F. Kennedy. D.S.