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Dear Bob,
By the time you read this, I'll be watching The Uncyclopedia Movie. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I have stolen three nuclear warheads and am planning to commit suicide by detonating them (in midtown New York, just to spice things up). I know this might seem like a sudden change to you, seeing as we made all those plans to destroy the universe, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need more men, on some kind of rotating schedule. 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 good-for-nothing crack whore, and I am worried about it. You like navel lint collecting, bobbing for old tires in the East River, and smelling your 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 again, but in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I've poured rohypnol into your cocktail again. 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, which lasted until you unexpectedly woke up from your coma. Take care of yourself and never forget to eat your vegetables.
~ 4.252.99.182. P.S. Remember to drink the nut-flavored tea I poured you today. D.S. |