I said, again, “Leave me alone,” though I don’t think I meant it.

I had to walk away after reading this chapter. I walked for hours. Do I have to enumerate the ways in which this has gone plummeting off the rails?

Okay. You’re clearly writing a novel, not a memoir. *Deep breath* In that spirit, I’ve decided to be flattered a character based on me gets a starring role. BUT—plus all the buts in the world—let’s go through this chapter’s unveracity somewhat briefly, just to be on the record.

The photo: After the funeral I essentially admitted to you, without coming right out and saying it, I had smooshed my thumb on the photo of the dead woman while it developed. Pretending the blobbed film represented the woman’s ghoulish leanings was a fun, silly game, one you were totally in on. At least, I’d thought so. And fucking hell it was a blue blob on the photo, not green. Not even close to green. People have reported seeing blue lights or orbs over Mercy’s and others’ graves. Are you not going to mention the slew of other New England vamps who were dug up in the late 1700s and 1800s? And it’s always blue blobs. Not green ones. Though now with the entirety of this chapter ringing in my head, I’m guessing you described the thumb blob as green so my green jacket could transform into … what … some sort of parasitic monster thingy that’s part of me? At some point within the NOVEL you’ll have to explain what that was, dude, even if your Arty explanation is, “I confess I smoked weed that night and it might’ve been laced with angel dust or something.” And you DID smoke that night, two different times. The first time after dinner with your parents, which I’m guessing was your first time ever. You didn’t tell me that. But, come on, you didn’t have to. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you being high was why you stumbled over the top of the cemetery fence. I still don’t get how you, Mr. Floaty Legs, managed to get your shorts caught without impaling yourself on the sharp metal pikes. Lucky fella. Yeah, that batch of weed was way strong, and more than probably had some extra chemical enhancements. My bad?

The second time you smoked was after the graveyard while we idled in your driveway. You were so freaked out about having to talk your parents about my staying over I thought another hit might take your edge off. In hindsight, that didn’t work out so great. You were a freaking puddle, and you drank half a liter of Coke straight from the bottle, crushed a large bag of potato chips, and then I had to coax you out of spending the night curled up on the floor under the kitchen table. You were using the empty chip bag as a pillow. Crinkly. Then an hour or so later, I woke up with you in my room, leaning against the wall, holding my camera, and snapping a pervy picture of me while I slept on the couch. Then you ran away with it. I mean, what was that all about? You can’t blame all of it on being stoned out of your gourd. So, yeah, shooting that picture was not cool, and it was why I didn’t call you or seek you out until after your back surgery.