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Dear John letter
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Dear Santa,
By the time you read this, I'll be in pitched battle with God and all his host of angels.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I have stolen three nuclear warheads and am planning to commit suicide by detonating them (in midtown New York, just to spice things up).
I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to slowly fade into non-existence, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — at least so long as I remain high. I just need more cowbell.
I want to tell you that I think you are so incredibly full of shit that it's a miracle that you haven't exploded into a cascading rivulet of foul smelling excrements yet, but I don't think we're right for each other.
First of all, we're not really compatible. You are a balloon animal fan,
and I am not the type of person to be running around screaming that I have a "relationship".
You like laying on the floor with all the lights off, juggling chainsaws, and genitally piercing unsuspecting strangers in unemployment line queues,
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 our respective parents, if only so we can feel unfaithful again.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever someone asks me to define the word "promiscuous".
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, assuming that "good times" is just another way of saying "total suckage".
Take care of yourself and never forget where you leave the keys. Honestly, those things are are a PAIN to find again.
Fuck off,
~ Dalai Llama.
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