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Dear Bob,
By the time you read this, I'll be living in your house and drinking your coffee. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but well... no, I'm not sorry. Lying was always my worst problem with you, and I'm sorry. No. No, I'm not. I know this might seem like , well... inevitable, really, to you, seeing as we made all those plans to assassinate the Pope, but I just don't see things working out that way. I'm sorry about this — but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter. I just need more cowbell. 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 an atheist, and I am a serial killer convicted for the deaths of 91 people. You like traveling to other cities and showing up uninvited at total strangers' birthday parties, dressing up as yourself during Halloween, and dissecting frogs with butterknives, 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 each other's pets. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I completely run out of other, far more important things to think about. 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, I think. Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you live, your name and what you look like, so beware.
~ Your abusive stepfather. P.S. This is what the alphabet would look like without Q and R. D.S. |