How To Survive Your Death (The Prologue)

Dear Reader,

Though this will literally kill my mom, I’ve decided to post her letter. She started writing this book as a letter to explain herself to me. You can tell from just the amount of pages alone, my mom has a lot of explaining to do. I guess by posting this, I don’t really accept this, her attempt to justify what she is, cause, how do you justify sucking human blood and killing people? I don’t care if she is a vampire, that’s no excuse. And neither is being my mother. Read for yourself, it’s all here in black and white, though it’s red all over in the blood of innocents. She wrote it, she admitted to all of it, see for yourself, and imagine having this monster as your mother. Then go find her and drive a stake through her heart, cause, that’s basically what she’s done to my whole life.

Now that I know it all, I can’t live with my mother any more. She can make like a bat and get the hell out of Toronto, I’m sure she will as soon as she learns her book is coming out to expose her as the bloodsucker she is. But, she shouldn’t be impossible to catch, hard, sure, my mother is a natural survivalist. No, I don’t want to call my mother a natural anything. If anything, she is completely unnatural. Other people’s death gives her life, how natural is that? She kills what’s natural to satisfy her selfish unnatural desire to stay undead. Well, she’s dead to me. I guess that’s what this book is. This book will finish her. We all have a stake to stick a stake through my mother’s heart, but, I’m sure my father most of all. If you’re out there, reading this, know, the title is dedicated to you, and if you are the one to kill her, I hope you then come find me. But, only after you kill her.

I’ll keep the promise I made when my mother gave me this horror story, that if I did post, I’d give her a pseudonym. My mother is not Cottonbombs, that’s Peter. Peter’s my next door neighbor who wants to get famous, so, we’re killing two birds with one stone by letting Peter post this.

But, the writing itself has been left untouched, unlike all the people and their families my mother has eaten over the years. This is an unfiltered warning that my mother is out in the night trying to kill you. Read this and learn what she looks like, and how to defend yourself against her.

Though, I can’t put her picture in this post, I can describe her: she’s early thirties, about 5′ 7”, or about 170 centimetres, long wavy brown hair to her shoulder blades, green eyes; it’s hard to call her attractive, cause I’m so mad at her, but, I think it fair to you, Reader, to admit that my mother may be considered empirically beautiful. Careful, cause it makes her much more dangerous.

This all started a few nights ago, a couple nights after I asked my mother the two questions that I’d been asking her my whole life. I guess she went off to write this answer, back down to her deathbed that she’s decorated lately with photos by Anne Geddes. Photos of babies looking like various plants and animals haunt her basement crypt. Just when I thought my mom couldn’t get weirder, she takes down all her Asian art and masks and things and replaces them with weird baby photos of babies looking like elephants and cabbage. From such hell, she surfaced a few nights later, holding these pages, her answer. Then she left me to read this while she went out to get dinner. I post this now hoping that next time, it won’t be you.

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