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Dear Mystery Man,
By the time you read this, I'll be on Isle of Man, having much more fun than you. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but enough is enough. I've HAD it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane! I know this might seem like an unexpected departure to you, seeing as we made all those plans to cannibalize your family, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — or at least that's what you're supposed to say in these situations. I just need more cowbell. I want to tell you that I think you are really quite adequate, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the only one in the world who actually thinks Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer are funny, and I am a serial killer convicted for the deaths of 22 people. You like toying with mousetraps, scratching yourself publicly, and watching animal porn, 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 run around screaming and foaming in my padded cell. 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, before the police accidentally found the body hidden in your closet. Take care of yourself and never forget how much lower your reputation will slip as soon as I publish this on my blog.
~ (name is not important as we are all so much more than our names). P.S. I poured some arsenic into your food yesterday. Shows what I think of infidelity, you unfaithful wench! D.S. |