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Dear Gordon Freeman,
By the time you read this, I'll be a member of the Fantastic Four. 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 a sudden change to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, 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 go to the moon or a gay retared place. I want to tell you that I think you are in need of some serious physical therapy against your hideous acid breath, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a card-carrying member of the Hair Club for Men, and I am on my own plane of psychological existence. You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, huffing kittens, and writing love letters to Bob Saget, 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 someday, but only if you go in for surgery and get your brain replaced. And your nose. Or to keep it simple, ask them to change everything but your name. Or have them change that as well, unless doing so would complicate billing. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need someone to help me move. I'd really like us to become an African-American comedy duo, 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 despite all the nonsense I've written in this letter, I'm still going to track you down and kill you.
~ The "I Like Cheese Monthly" Editor. P.S. This is what the alphabet would look like without Q and R. D.S. |