Time guarantees all sorts of troublesome issues, even more so when it is without end. Centuries have passed since I lost my humanity, my very capacity for decay, and across the countless years I've made more enemies than I have friends. So many enemies, in fact, that much of their animosity has become lost on me. Take my oldest still-living adversary, for example. A pompous family line of aristocratic fools, hellbent on writing wrongs committed so long ago that I can hardly recall what those wrongs were to begin with. Which is unfortunate, as possessing such information could perhaps help me heal this, likely petty, grudge which they insist on upholding.

I mean, did I purloin a rare collection of priceless jewelry during my first visit to the French coast in 1640? Sure. Did I spread a particularly nasty brand of syphilis to a number of settlements throughout Europe and Eastern Asia in the 19th Century? Yes, I did that. Was I partly responsible for inciting an insurrection which resulted in the deaths of a few thousand people? Guilty. But still, you'd think the bitterness would subside after so long, however I'm beginning to think that may never be the case.

Just last week an assassin interrupted a rather exciting game of online chess that I was playing in which I was very much on top. Unfortunately, it was ultimately ruined as a result. I just wish that they wouldn't be so rude in their attempts to murder me. Whatever happened to good manners?