I know I'm breaking the rules here, and I apologize if I'm throwing off anyone's train of thought, but here's the letter as it exists so far.
I loved you,
But I'm gay. Now I don't . . . that was then . . . note past tense . . . but prefer onaism. Still left wanting gave you chlamydia . . . AND your mother. She was good. Not good enough Valerie . . . Nancy . . . Jane? My sight returned. Now I must get your sister. She is wild but puberty arrived. I hate hair. You shaved sasquatch but contracted crabs. You should wax until you undressed. I went limp. Now I'm medicated. Here's your money. Now get out. Montana prefers lobsters but regained sight. I'm sober now. After the claws but midgets? Seriously? Tight makes right then Springer called. We went show can't recall why. But your mom showed her butt. Hairy ass b/tch. <sorry> It's not you it's the projectile vomit on my dog's penis that I lied often about but I digress. You still smell like a wet dog's penis that the midget took from your ass. Please clean it with acid. And don't ever push that thing in anyone's face other than sister Karamozarellabedania, because she's still a virgin. Ironically, she gives your doctor's name when recommending specialists. You've simply hurt any hope I've sequestered in my heart that maybe anal sex was something you might someday possibly, hopefully, put behind you.
My childhood sweetheart lost a nipple setting bear traps for her kids. Then in a tragic tragic hunting accident her child bit the remaining one, spraying blood and milk, killing my grand entrance. Nobody could have done the suicide attempt with any greater aplomb. Clogged bowels aside, I still feel you semicolon was unnecessary. You warmly used to use proper punctuation during your period. "Hallo, Meester Squeekyshoes," I remember fondly . . that time we used your shoes to dislodge a corncob from my molars. That was when we still were touching each warm soft full bulbous inflamed red pimply hairy chaffed nostril like it was made of glass. Hurriedly heatedly I ate French bread from your bunsmaster pillow-like receptacle. The butter dripped on my Great Dane's tender, hairless, recently-licked crotch when suddenly Mom came in! Breaking-up us three who were fondling our purple distended Great-Dane's member, le-manage-et-toi Cheater! You took six words, Chumly. Despite hyphenation. Cheap!
Cypercat's seasoned member was tempting, certainly, her barbed tongue lolling languidly, ludicrously splashed salvia copiously onto my dish inspiring me to also lick the Mailman. My loss will be your gain. Sexual incompatibility is asking for too much, and Brokeback got us acting like two sailors in Wyoming with oars instead of dangly things jiggling and causing bruises to our upper AND lower teeth... the only extremity left untouched don't rock boat cause seasickness is... quite debilitating when you're puking all over new plimsolls and fuzzy little --gosh, I'm drunk. Pushup brasseries, pinching [well, what?! I felt it was the only way to explain the peculiar turn the letter had taken...] (NOTE: the preceeding was cyphercat's contribution to the letter on April 29th) erect nipples, giggling like retarded children, in North Dakota on acid. They laughed for hours and their tiny Little heels clicked as they whispered, plotted, schemed and danced as though thier little penis' stemmed the rose -colored chalice of evil. Exes do do get on with life, liberty and ferrets. But as for you, My dear, darkness... will forever envelop this thrilling dimension , this throbbing absence, this wretched abysmal thread, is boundless, much as my disdain for your grammatically incorrect sentences.
This letter was brought to you by viewers like Madonna, who don't mind reading drivel as long as the beer keeps cold inside her fridge. My dearest, it is time. Now is the bedding down of many virgins, and horny sluts who will give themselves the most intense cherry cheesecake dinner. What care they if it's fake? It makes them long for the reality of a midget wrestling match (no holds barred). Cheesecake, midgets - what i really want is a napkin to wipe away the mess I made on your mothers rocking chair. I hope she doesnt stick to the gelatinous substance I attempted licking despite the warning and my tongue losing its sensation. I'm still wondering about midgets?-do they love big swirly lollipops? Or things that throb, like green paramecium? I would'nt know love from hate but my genitals ache from the thought of it. It makes me yearn for the inflatable goat that made its way into my living space / batchelor pad and started sucking my engorged, python-like lifeforce. Sperm whale mating is tricky and REALLY messy despite the obvious love we shared.
What I'm trying insufferably obsequiously obliquely to pontificate is (WHAT?! SAY IT!!!) that you can repeatedly stick your hermaphroditically disoriented kobasa up my rotund and tight ass. Cross-dressing capricious cunning-linguist you are not, but I digress. In a simple and plainly human fashion. Piffle! I know nothing of your wanton ways. But miss your sweet and sour vagina cake. Lips are wide open to receive my purple ribbed knobbler after i apply strawberry jam and generous amounts of whipped cream to a long-dead hamster. Would you consider violating it one more time? I hate your little thrusting
I know, I've complained about these long posts myself, but this letter is huge.
hey, you read my mind -- i was planning on copying it all down...
