_elichrusos

Morals are disconcerting. I was quite convinced that my Jiminy Cricket had been thoroughly gooshed beneath a pair of black stack heels; yet here he is screaming his moralist ranting like come kind of zombie angel. I can just picture him sitting there, smelling, on my shoulder. His cane has been cellotaped together, he's leaving a trail of viscera down the back of my jacket.

"Do good! Brains!"

EDIT: Demonstration of the primary problem that a writer (or at least a writer who is me) encounters: Now I feel bad because somewhere, I've just created a horribly broken, deformed and likely very unhappy Zombie Jiminy Cricket. I'm sorry, Jiminy Cricket. No-one deserves to be a zombie. All you ever wanted was to keep me happy.

I think I shall go wallow in guilt now.