I hope I die a virgin in your arms

Hi, Amanda, it’s Roy. Roy Applebum. You know, that guy who got your name tattooed all over his body in body paint that won’t come off now and has me permanently branded as a stalker. Thanks a lot for not having sex with me when you had the chance; even after I wrote you all those sonnets and told you how much I loved you in binary code (I even sent you a manual so you could decode the damn thing).
And remember when I strummed that song for you on my loon and pranced to your house wearing that awesome Shakespeare leotard I bought off eBay? All I got from you was laughter and eggs pelted at me by your older brothers, even though all I was trying to do was win your affection.
But let’s be honest. We all know why I did it. The loon playing, the poems, the impressionistic dancing I learned from the bar scene in Star Wars: Episode 4—I wanted to get laid! Twenty-two years old and my only lover is still the hand I use to play Marble Madness with at the Diner down the street.
And we all know you’ve slept with every dirty dick in the whole solar system, even the losers with pimples that go all the way from their face down to their small intestine. You even fucked Danny Atola, the school mascot, and that dickwad still has warts on his penis after he stuck his dick in his sister’s Easy Bake Oven (He didn’t even have to show it to me on his MySpace page. It was his user menu picture!)
So why wouldn’t you do me, Amanda?
I’m funny, have my own hair and retainer, and am even a member of the Metallica Club; doesn’t that do ANYTHING for you?
I’m writing you this letter to let you know that I’m not much longer for this world. I’ve decided that if a jerk wad like Danny Atola could get laid and brag about it to all his friends in his Yu-Gi-Oh club, then I should be able to get laid, too. I mean, God, I’m not THAT bad looking, and my prick has even grown a few millimeters over the past few years. At that rate, if we ever got married, my penis would be at least 5 inches, hard, over the next 40 years. And you can take that check to the bank, sweet cheeks.
So I hope you know what you’re missing out on, baby. A guy like me comes only what, every 12, 13 millennia, and you just lost me, sunshine; you just lost me big time!
When they find my dead body underneath that Street Fighter 2 machine by the car wash, I hope you know that you just lost out on the best lay in 30 seconds you could have ever had this side of the universe. Save your tears for somebody else, sister, I’m already dead.

Roy Applebum