By the time you read this, I'll be composing a concerto for 3 bassoons and a trombone.I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but it's not like I'm not going to kill you on Saturday anyway.
I know this might seem like , complicated, bewildering, and kind of eroticto you, seeing as we made all those plans to sink the British isles, 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 nails, matches and a voodoo doll of you.
I want to tell you that I think you are like a senile old parrot, but I don't think we're right for each other.First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the latest addition to my evergrowing list of people I'm planning to kill,and I am a schoolgirl.You like urine sample collecting,harassing sheep until they explode, andrecommending suicide as the only viable cure for hiccups,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 different continents.But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "pointless".
I'd really like us to become bitter enemies, constantly plotting each other's downfall until one of us (preferably me) succeeds, giving that person (again, preferably me) the opportunity to engage in stereotypical maniacal laughter,if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, at least when we turned the clock forward a few hours and then pretended that something nice happened during that time (whereas nothing at all happened, really).
Take care of yourself and never forget how much lower your reputation will slip as soon as I publish this on my blog.