Dear John letter

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Wednesday, March 3, 2021  

Dear future murder victim nr. 11,

By the time you read this, I'll be on a train to Fiji. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but with your breath, a letter seemed the safest option.

I know this might seem like a sinister scheme from me to stage an "accident" and claim the life insurance policy on you (which it is) to you, seeing as we made all those plans to enter the Guinness Book of World Records by the becoming the first couple ever to watch "The Cure for Insomnia" without falling asleep, 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 to finish that annoying Zork game on that Uncyclopedia website I told you about yesterday (it's driving me crazy, it's like no matter what you do, you'll ALWAYS end up being eaten by a grue!).

I want to tell you that I think you are not as strong in the Force as the Emperor thought, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a pederast, and I am everything you will never be. You like using magnifying glasses to kill aunts, painting your eyelids with pictures of eyeballs, and arguing with the voices only you can hear over dinner plans, 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 someone mentions the words "ugly", "useless" and/or "stupid" in my presence.

I'd really like us to become nihilistic Al-Qaeda terrorists and blow up everything that moves, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, I assume, in some other more cheerful reality among the infinite number of alternate universes out there.

Take care of yourself and never forget the hard work of the ten million chained up monkeys with typewriters that wrote this letter.

Ding dong, the witch is dead,

~ Norman Bates.