Sunday, August 9, 2009
I’m going to send the last entry, the letter to my grandmother, to her house once a week, every week until the bitch dies.

I’m going to fight this as fiercely as my mother would have.

I’m going to insure that my mother’s last wishes are fulfilled, if it bankrupts and/or kills me to do so.

I’m going to make sure my mother is given the respect in her death she deserves.

I’m going to move back to the island at this end of this month and insure that I can be there for court cases, to arrange a proper memorial – after informing all her loved ones of her demise.

And when this is all over, I’m going to survive; somehow, some way.

On the 31st of this month, my whore-cunt-slut-bitch-insult-to-all-women-kind of a sister had my mother’s body cremated without a funeral, without informing anyone, without anyone’s input until my mom’s body was already in the oven. My grandmother, my mother’s mother stood by her side while she did it.

Yesterday, my other grandmother pointed out the obituary my sister and that wicked witch had written.

It’s an insult, another slap in my mother’s face! How much colder, insincere, thoughtless can an obituary be than that?

I will have a proper one, telling the world what my mother was really all about, published as soon as possible.

These people aided in her death, refusing to help her over the past two years. And now that she is gone, they’ve raped her body and murdered her all over again. And they are both her blood... They are her mother and one of her daughters.

There are some things that are to never be forgiven. There are some people that do not deserve to live. There are some things; it’d be worth going to jail for.

But instead, we are taking them to court. We will sue the fuck out of them, and demand that my mother’s Will be followed to the T, despite that cunt stealing the original signed copy, and denying it existed. We will attempt to sue the coroner for releasing my mother’s body to a mentally challenged bitch. We will make my mother’s mother sell her home if she’s stolen an of my mother’s willed belongings.

And I know my mother would have it no other way. Before my mother was sick... she was just. And she’d expect the same from me.

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No matter where I am, I'm lost and learning to like it. I'm a living contradiction, and the best lies I tell are the ones I tell myself.
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