Dearest Followers.
A Horrible Valentine's Day to you all.
It is I ... the beautiful and delightful Eddie Stardust, calling to you, once more, from beyond the reaches of Undeath.
It has been four long years and two short days, since last you enjoyed the delights of my exquisite prose and my sparkling wit. I am certain that this must have created a most distressing gap in your lives but, forsooth, it was impossible for me to remedy this most foul and heinous situation.
Alas, would that I might have found a way to communicate with you, prior to now but following on from the unfortunate night of absinthe related indulgence, in which I used the cranial cavity of my ghostwriter Yorrick as the vessel for said drinking, I have been ... well ... without a ghostwriter.
Honestly, dear reader, the wretched wraith wrung his wraithy hands and flounced out of my life. FLOUNCED ... OUT ON ME! This has never happened before. Life, as I knew it, was over. Why would Yorrick leave me? Why? I am such an exquisite specimen of pure beauty. Surely that alone should have convinced him to stay.
In my state of complete wretchedness, I tried, for whole minutes, to court Death's embrace. I even crept into his lap and raised my skirts in a vain attempt to convince him to cradle me in his bony arms and lull me into the Oblivion of which I so ardently dreamt. Sadly, for a gimp vampire such as myself, such releases are denied us.
On another occasion, I tried to trick Death into taking me, by throwing myself at a tree. I thought, in my wisdom that being skewered through the heart by a branch of a pine tree might be sufficient to send me into the Great Beyond. Alas, the tree I threw myself at was a dumped artificial one, left over from Christmas. I was undone, undead and humiliated.
After that, for the first two years of my absence, I vanished into the ground, soaking
up the soil and avoiding all contact with other beings. I craved the
blood of the men that passed me, as I lay beneath the soil in a dark
corner of a Paris car park but I resisted.
Eventually, I became bored with the loneliness and, when a pesky earthworm attempted to slither into my ear one day, my irritation peaked. I was incandescent with indifference at the misery of existence and decided I must return to my old life and resume my writings.
Since then, I have been obliged to partake of such indignities as ... Evening Classes and Purchasing a Smart Phone and a Lap Top. I have learned to manage modern technology sufficiently that I am now able to navigate the strands of the World Wide Spider's Web without getting ensnared in its stickiness and I can Twit and Twoo like any good owl might.
I had hoped, watching people taking selfishes on their smartphones and posting them on Instant Gratification Gram or whatever they call it these days, that I might have been able to indulge in their narcissistic fun and post millions of photographs of myself for the Interweb Spiders to enjoy. Alas, I cannot be photographed. My beauty can only be beheld in the flesh.
And so, it has come to this. I am writing for myself and I must produce my writings without the help of my dear Yorrick, whom I did not realise I stomached quite so well as I do.
Alas, dear Yorrick. I miss him so.
His skull is broken. Oh! Oh! Oh!
At my hand too. I am undone.
Without Yorrick this isn't fun.
What I wouldn't give to have my old minion drift through my door once more and smite my writings with his inimitable, miserable sarcasm. But it is not to be. Woe is me!
Please, dear reader, try to imagine me now, in my sequin studded smoking jacket, reclining dramatically upon my purple velvet chaise longue and placing the back of my hand against my forehead, while wailing into the bleak nothingness of my Ghostwriterless existence.
COME BACK, DEAR YORRICK. ALL IS FORGIVEN!
