Dear Passing Fancy,
By the time you read this, I'll be in midtown London on a massive shopping spree with your credit card that I kind of "borrowed" earlier today (the pincode is 8391, isn't it?).
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but your needs are inherently less important than mine.
I know this might seem like a kick in the nuts
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to visit your grand-parents to give them a big ol' kiss, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — I think. 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 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 an atheist,
and I am into bodysurfing.
You like bathing in gasoline, dating circus midgets, and feeding rice to sea gulls,
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 everyone else in the world, just to find out the answer — or at least I should, you have no hope on that score.
But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I dig your cold, dead body up again to have sex with you.
I'd really like us to become snobbish self-styled intellectuals who always change the subject to 19th century Russian literature in order to look smart everytime a third person approaches,
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 that every time you wish for coal as a Christmas present, you'll get porridge instead.
Yippee ki yay, motherfucker,
~ Jane.
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