Well, here we are, my gentle readers, or perhaps I should say, “Oh dear.”

You did not heed my warnings. If you are here, then you find me amusing. Whether this is because you believe in my existence or not, is immaterial; I really must insist that you keep your wits about you. I can be quite charming, but I have had a very, very long time to practice. Be cautious of me, my friends, or you may regret it. For even if you do not believe, and take up this experiment merely to see if I will “break character”, I will not subvert my reality for yours.

I will wear you down, little by little, like the hunter that I am.

But come, there may indeed be those among the audience who did not read the first volume of my life, and so we must attend to them first, so that we are all “on the same page”, as it were.

I am a monster. I eat people. I write about it. It is not art. It is not a joke. While I do tend to make my condition fodder for humor, it is only because I find immortality quite tedious.

Before you ask, I have no idea how old I am, nor whence my race originated. I have many hypotheses concerning this, but they have not undergone rigorous testing, as I do not relish the idea of dissecting myself. I have made something of a comfortable life among you, and am seldom seen for what I am. I pay taxes, I own property, I even get summonses for jury duty.

I have a small circle of human friends who are privy to my secrets— not including those among you who have overlooked the purposefully obscured details of this text and seen the truth— and am firmly ensconced in “reality”, such as it is. I have a dog, a business, investments, and a significant other— though I call him this simply because there really is no word for a partner in interspecies commingling.

Aside from my — shall we label them “limitations”— I am entirely uninteresting. Yet, several bizarre humans were so beguiled by this guileless tale that they purchased the right to distribute it. So now, in addition to the societal obligations, I have deadlines.

Tell me, exactly how does one sequel one’s life? In this, the contract seems to imply that I must believe in reincarnation. The publishers, who remain convinced that I am simply hilariously witty and eccentric, do not have an answer. And so I am left afloat in the seas of literature. I find myself returning to the purpose of the original experiment: the attempt to prove that humanity is so overwhelmed with fictions that it can no longer be frightened of me.

Perhaps one sequels that.

If there is anything that my existence can contribute to the understanding of yours, I view it as an acceptable avocation. After all, you have fed and clothed me for centuries, and it is only fair. So please allow me to set the parameters for this new experiment. It is not enough to demonstrate that you are incapable of being reasonable. I must elucidate the “why”, if such a thing can be made tangible. It is a lofty goal, I know, but my agent tells me I am legally obliged, and it is the only “argument” that unites the scattered elements of my journal, now being curated into novels.

I tell her my life does not have a plot and that this was the reason I wrote a “blog”.

She tells me that while lives do not have plots, books are supposed to.

I tell her that this essentially proves my point about the human brain and its capacity for stupidity.

She scowls at me and commands me to edit.

I vow to defy her, and so please, gentle reader, do not succumb to conceits of genre. Do not persist in thinking the universe exists for your entertainment.

I am real.

Instead, I invite you to see this as non-fiction, and you may take from its recipes and historical artifacts what you will and have a healthier mind for it.

Whatever your persuasions with regards to me and mine, welcome. I look forward to our continued acquaintance.