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To you reading this:
Chances are you have been rummaging through your grandparent’s closet or shopping at a swap meet when you found this book. That, or you are a rotten thief and I hope you get your comeuppance in whatever afterlife you believe in, you bastard.
That having been said, allow me to explain a few things. First, that the book you are currently reading and the volumes which follow chronicle what will be my last years on earth. That’s right. You’re reading a book by a now dead person. Get over it.
Second, because these are the last memories of my time alive and since I used the energy to write some of this stuff down, I’d appreciate it if you’d at least try to read it before tossing this book back into whatever shoebox you found it in. I don’t know if in the future reading books has been deemed un-cool, but I’m sure if you’re spending your afternoon cracking the covers on old journals, you probably don’t have much of a social life anyway.
Third, what you are about to read is true, with a little artistic license thrown in here and there for drama’s sake. I am storyteller, after all. I know you probably don’t believe in immortals, magic, or fairy tales. That’s fine. Not all of those things need your belief in order to exist. Not everything is about you, you know. That having been said, one of the reasons why I am writing this down is because sometimes you need people to question their reality just a bit. Not a whole hearted belief, but just question.
The final reason I am writing this is because of Riley Carter. Understand that I hate him, but years from now there will be a moment when he tries to convince his annoying brats of his adventures (because I guarantee he will have kids when he grows up). And they won’t believe him, because what modern kid wouldn’t think they’re parent wasn’t just pulling their leg. So, here it is, future mini-Carters. A book to back-up your dad’s crazy stories. And if he did something stupid like name one of you after me, I deeply apologize.