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Dear Penis (with life support system attachment),
By the time you read this, I'll be at Community Hospital, being prepared for a sex-change operation. Our time together made me realize some important things about myself. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with all the botox in your face, I might as well be fraternizing with mannequins instead. At least those don't have every STD known to man... I know this might seem like an insidious scheme to dominate the universe to you, seeing as we made all those plans to suck out the souls of those unworthy of a vampiric prowess, 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 to find someone who is male and breathes — and quickly. I want to tell you that I think you are Jimbo, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are nobody, and I am an Uncyclopedia in-joke. You like navel lint collecting, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and gas tungsten arc welding, 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 Friday and then try to kill each other through strangulation (or with knives) just for fun. 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, nah; I'm just screwing with you. Take care of yourself and never forget that each day of your life may be the last as long as I'm around.
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