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Dear hooker I slept with in Vegas,
By the time you read this, I'll be sneaking destroying angels into the button mushroom meal you'll be served within 5 minutes.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I know this might seem like a very large malignant tumour on your L4 vertebrae (and to be truthful, it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grandparents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly. I want to tell you that I think you are a fucking ugly bitch, and I want to stab you to death, and then play around with your blood, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are from another dimension,
and I am not you.
You like having sex in dumpsters, talking like Captain Kirk, and accusing comatose patients of laziness,
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 to I'd really like us to become people that pretend not to know each other, 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 that you've only got one bullet left, it's going to take more than that to stop me.
~ That old woman next door. |