Dear John letter

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9 Vicars-in-a-lift Lane,

Saturday, Octodest 21, 2023

Dear peson whose name I can't be bothered to remember,

By the time you read this, I'll be in sunny Zurich, drinking extortionately priced beer and completing my memoirs. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm still waiting 16 hours for Blender to render my 3D artwork...on a Intel Celeron wouldn't let me buy anything's all your fault.

I know this might seem like a complete disaster to you, seeing as we made all those plans to hold you so tight that you pop like a firework, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — but I'm Dracula.. I just need more length from you than I'm getting, and let's face it — you're shrinking with age.

I want to tell you that I think you're ...good at Scrabble, if slightly obsessed with it, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You're wanted in nineteen states, and I'm an amateur weightlifter. You like groping fresh produce, peeling watermelons, and making faces at babies until they cry, 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 again, but only if we're re-incarnated into each other's bodies and I get to be "you" next time. Oh yes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I need to tell my side of the story on Jerry Springer.

I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We've had some good times, at least before we met.

Take care of yourself and never forget that I know where you buried the body, and won't hesitate to contact police should the need arise.

~ Mom.

P.S.: I've turned gay, so send me a child adoption form.

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