Lepidopterotica

Jolly Me, Star, Linds, Christy

Star Foster is dead.
This isn't a joke.
She's not starring in a zombie movie (though she did that), she's not screaming her horrific stage scream as a pirate doctor butchers her entrails for the enjoyment of a crowd of spectators (though she did that too).

Fifteen men on a dead man's chest.
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
Drink and the devil have done for the rest.
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.

When I met Star ... well, I first met her online ... we clicked instantly. Same story in person. We both love pirates (to a level of obsession few dare match), we love London and theatre, we love horror and pain and fiction about same ... she was one of the few people who got all my jokes and appreciated the bad puns and the black humor alike, and I hers.

There has been a lot said on LJ and elsewhere about her talent, her vivacity, her slew of interests (how did she keep up with all of them?), her sharp sarcastic wit ... what keeps coming back to me is that Star is someone I knew I'd be friends with forever. Whenever we talked, no matter how much time had passed, it was as if we'd just seen each other a few minutes ago. Sometimes, some people just ... get it. And Star always got it.

My condolences to all who love her.
Especially her family and her tiny nephew who she completely adored.

The picture above is from a night at Jolly's Piano Bar where we all sang ourselves silly and drank ourselves very silly. After Mr. Van Helder carried me through the streets of Philly, Star took me home, put me to sleep in her fabulous romantic vampire bed and took care of me. The next day was a joyous experience of coffee, books, and conversation.

And I want more of those days with her.
I still can't believe we won't have them.