User Profile

I cannot express my loathing for this word processing program. Most technology frustrates me with its convoluted instructions and its wastefulness of natural resources. But here I am, trying to write a "biography" of sorts to introduce myself to those of you unfamiliar with me. I find this actually rather amusing, as I am quite notorious within the world of immortals. I have the reputation of being rather cold and uncaring, having more love for plants which cannot speak, and animals who cannot think, than for my own blood. That is, Lestat. There are still some who are angry with me, that I seemed not to care when he was lying in a stupor on the floor of St. Elizabeth's. Merely because I do not show my emotions easily, does not mean I do not care.
But I am not here to convince them of this. After all, I do not really pay much heed to them; their opinions have no value. So I am writing for you, the mortal members who come to this place to speak with us. I am fully aware of the fact that I am not popular, nor do I seek it. I do cherish the few who come to ask me questions, who wish to know me better. It is for them, most especially that I write. Nature is important to my essential well-being. I must be in or near it constantly, although occasionally I venture into large cities, as I have now, for the moment.
My first love is Lestat. Always. He was my favorite child in life, and he is the reason I have come here. I came because he asked me to, and I find it hard to refuse him. My second love is for the violinist, Nicolas de Lenfent. I care so deeply about this wounded and broken soul, that I have ventured into cities to keep in close contact with him. I worry for him constantly. Lestat has always taken care of himself, but Nicolas cannot. I know Nicolas knows that I do not visit him merely because I was "in the area" or was "thinking of him", but because I do not condescend to him as so many of the other immortals do, he allows it.
This did not turn out to be so much about me as it has other people, I am afraid. But perhaps, in my words about them, you have discovered another part of me that perhaps you would not have otherwise, for it is not often written about. One cannot, in good conscience, write about what one cannot see.
So, I wrote about what I see. What do you see, readers? A woman, in dusty khaki, her carelessly braided blonde hair hidden under a squashed felt hat, jungle boots covered in mud? No doubt, it is a familiar image. Imagine her, now, at the computer, sucking on the end of a cheap pen in frustration at being unable to write the simplest of pieces. Now, imagine her getting up and walking out, in search of prey. For that is what you should see, when you think of me.