Dear Jimbo,
By the time you read this, I'll be in R'lyeh at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, worshiping great Cthulhu.
I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but attorneys cost money, and I'm eating for two now, if you know what I mean.
I know this might seem like a sudden change
to you, seeing as we made all those plans to sink the British isles, but I just don't see things working out that way.
I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need a dirty magazine, my right hand and a toilet paper — that's all it takes, really.
I want to tell you that I think you are the worst Tetris player ever, 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 a member of a religion that has repeatedly confirmed that people like that are going to burn in hell.
You like caressing lamp accessories, insult sword fighting, and belly-button sniffing,
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 my house is in need of some serious cleaning up.
I'd really like us to become partners in crime and steal candy from helpless little kids,
if that's okay with you. I think we can do it.
We had some good times, my left hand and I.
Take care of yourself and never forget that it's going to take more than a restraining order to keep me away from our children — they are mine too and I will not be denied them.
42,
~ Your sycophantic lodger whom you will never be rid of.
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