I believe these wise words from a certain swooning wisp explain all:
Oh Stephanie, so fair and debonair. Yet, vanity did eventually consume her. Her shadow reflecting but an empty shell of the once famous woman, now but a dirge on society as the pick up girl she is. Her lust for fashion and desire for France left her with a hip pocket of white hot flames. As she speaks, she expectorates a manner of foul substances. Once, under the brilliance of the moon, a flower was born from her mouth, so decrepit and stained by the tainted fluids of the carrion she so snacks on like jerky. The flower, so small, so subtle, yet so defined spoke to the audience as she reached for her parasol. She twirled it, twazzled it, twizzled it around! Such a site! When the parasol retired, she pulled out a man from under the mat and began to speak to him. Unfortunately, he was tired of hearing and molested her seven children. Poor Fred could take it not and took himself into the arms of God.
The remainder is unknown, of this little story, but is believed she went mad and killed the chap whom molested her children. She killed him so famously, with a sonnet or two about the life of her capsicum, Leonior. That capsicum has quite some adventures!
And yet... these words fail to send the most important message of all:
I am not a fish, dammit!
Dearest Stephanie,
