Stacey and I were never lovers, though I would have liked to be. Unfortunately she had been so abused by her parents that she had body-phobias the size of Jupiter. It was all she could do in most cases to bring herself to shake hands with you. So we were just very good friends instead.

Stacey was a little naive about the world in spite of her past. I think it was wishful thinking. It led her to be dissatisfied with alot of things, and sometimes that was hard to deal with.

Stacey's passion was writing and reading Science Fiction and Fantasy. It was she who introduced me to the work of Steven Brust, for which I am eternally grateful. She was also an extreme fan of Harlan Ellison, even going so far as to once confide in me that she'd have been willing to have sex with him he he'd ask when they (eventually) met. They never did, he never did, and they never did. And now, they never will.

Stacey committed suicide in August of 1991. It was clear from the manner of the suicide that she wanted to die, and did not change her mind during all the time that she could have backed out of it. Two hundred fifty people attended the funeral, which was held at Washington Square Park in New York City.

Stacey would have never believed that she had that many friends. That's what she deserved better than.