Dear John letter

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Tuesday, September 22, 2020  

Dear Sex toy,

By the time you read this, I'll be chasing your helpless grandma around with a huge fucking monster truck. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but no, I am not going to stop sending these letters just because the judge and my psychiatrist told me not to.

I know this might seem like a big surprise to you, seeing as we made all those plans to grow old, fat and senile together, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain intoxicated. I just need more space. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan is sounding pretty nice to me right now.

I want to tell you that I think you are a Cylon imposter, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the latest addition to my evergrowing list of people I'm planning to kill, and I am on my own plane of psychological existence. You like flicking staples at livestock, gay midgets, and practicing surgery on household pests, 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 sometime in the next millennia. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I smell that characteristic composite stench of rotten eggs, garlic and blue cheese again.

I'd really like us to become people that pretend they never dated, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, or so we'll pretend.

Take care of yourself and never forget that despite all the nonsense I've written in this letter, I'm still going to track you down and kill you.

Good luck with the police at your door,

~ Your alternate reality granddaughter.

P.S. I am your father. Search your feelings - you know it to be true. D.S.