Dear Sheila,

It was a dark and stormy night….

I can’t even explain today, so I’m not going to try.

Just read.

And don’t let your book chin hit the floor because it will—if you have one. And if you have one, don’t tell me because I’ll have to kill you. A chin connotes a mouth and a mouth would mean you could talk. This would be bad for you and I like you.

But back to my story… How do I know chins will hit the floor? I know because mine did. If I wasn’t a Vampyre, I would have needed stitches.

For real.

Hold on, Shelia. Today was a bumpy ride…

“I’m Bigfoot,” Satan said with a shit-eating grin on his handsome face.

“Shut the front fucking door,” I shouted. “You are not Bigfoot. Bigfoot doesn’t exist.”

“Do you realize what a ludicrous statement that is?” Satan countered with a raised brow and a delighted smirk. “I’m the Devil. You’re a Vampyre-Demon. My mother controls nature and pole dances. My father is a Sprite who breaks appliances in Heaven and Hell by repairing them. Fairies are real and Trolls exist. Why in the name of everything vile would you think Bigfoot isn’t alive and well and causing more conspiracy theories than UFOs?”

“You’re ruining my life. This is more devastating than when I learned Santa was a fake,” I snapped. “You have single handedly destroyed my guilty pleasure, you big butthole. I watch Finding Bigfoot on Animal Planet. I’ve seen Harry and the Hendersons twenty-two times and Yeti: Curse of the Snow Demon six times. And the movie Bigfoot starring that dude Greg from the Brady Bunch and Danny from the Partridge Family. It was the worst piece of shit I’ve ever seen. I’ve watched that cinematic catastrophe forty-six times.”

“Do you have a point?” Satan asked, looking genuinely confused.

“Not sure yet,” I admitted. “I’m not finished with my movie list. I accidentally watched Sweet Prudence and the Erotic Adventures of Bigfoot—completely disgusting—way worse than Rage of the Yeti, which I’ve seen twice. However, Strange Wilderness was awesome. These two dudes have a really bad nature show so they go in search of Bigfoot to boost their ratings so they don’t get cancelled…and they find him! And then they kill him by accident. But that wasn’t the funniest part. The one really cute guy, Steve Zahn, gets his wanker swallowed by an endangered turkey when he’s taking a weewee in the woods and they have to pull it off of him without killing the turkey. So freakin’ funny. I mean, horrible but funny. The doctors stretch his weenie all the way across the examination room trying to pull the turkey off.”

“This was a documentary?” Satan asked in a horrified whisper, bent over at the waist in phantom pain.

“Hell to the no,” I told him with a laugh. “It was a fake weenie in a movie—at least I hope it was fake.”

“How did we digress to fake elastic genitals, endangered turkeys and Greg from the Brady Bunch?”

I paused and tried to find the answer… I couldn’t. Whatever.

“No clue,” I admitted. “What’s the worst movie you ever watched?”

“Worst best or worst worst?” Satan inquired, clearly unable to figure out how we’d gotten here either.

“Worst best,” I said.

“Showgirls—absolutely terrifying. I’ve seen it at least two hundred times. We’ve turned it into a drinking game in Hell every other Thursday. The Demons love it. They dress up like Elizabeth Berkley and perform all the dance routines.”

Digesting that piece of bizarre information took me a minute. I might have to go to Hell and experience that clusterfuck at least once.

“Bigfoot,” I shouted, pointing an accusing and sparking finger at my uncle. “You ruined my existence by telling me that you’re Bigfoot. I’ve been secretly searching for Bigfuckingfoot my whole life. I always thought I would be the one to find him and I’d become famous. I’d have a TV show and would wear designer pink Yeti-hunting gear and Prada stiletto boots. Steven Colbert would invite me on The Late Show and I’d be so funny that Saturday Night Live would ask me to host. I’d say no of course, because I’m not a comedian and I’m dead, but they would insist and beg and cry—so I’d do it and it would get the highest ratings ever. After that, I’d record an album with Beyoncé and Adam Levine about the entire experience of finding Yeti and call it Purple Bigfoot—my shout out to one of the best albums ever made, Prince’s Purple Rain—and I’d win a Grammy. In my speech, I’d make sure to name all the girls who said my haircut looked like a mullet in high school and then all my legions of loyal fans would go to their houses and give those mean bitches mullet haircuts and plaster pictures all over Facebook. But now you’ve ruined my secret fantasy.”

And the Devil was speechless—for about thirty-two and a half seconds. Then he laughed so hard I was pretty sure he was going to choke to death.

“It’s not that funny,” I hissed.

He kept laughing.

“Seriously,” I yelled over his hysterics. “Stop laughing.”

He kept laughing.

“Listen you assmonkey,” I growled. “If you don’t stop laughing at me, I’ll smite your sorry ass.”

He kept laughing.

And laughing.

And laughing.

Sooooo, Shelia, I listened to Uncle Fucker laugh for two hours and twenty-three minutes straight. Not only was the assjacket laughing—he was laughing so hard he was crying. And then as if that wasn’t mortifying enough, he started rolling around on the floor. At least fifteen pens, two staplers and a box of Post-it notes he stole from Ethan’s desk fell out of his pockets.

Of course being mature, I picked them up and lobbed them at his head. Unfortunately this only made the imbecile laugh harder. All around it was a bad day.

The only good thing was that the douchecanoe was so hoarse from laughing he couldn’t dictate anymore of his appalling autobiography to me. It’s the little things, Shelia. We must be grateful for the little things. However, if he tells anyone my secret fantasy, I’ll post the video I took of him at Christmas singing Journey songs in his sleep on YouTube.

Lucifer is tone deaf, but I’ll save that for another day. I’m exhausted from being laughed at for 239878293748237 hours. I’m sure you understand.

Have a nice night. And if you’re laughing at me do it silently or I’ll have to kill you.

xoxo Astrid