Write about: the parrot.
Safe and sound with friends in Vancouver tonight. The drive went fairly well, with only a couple of extra stops to get Max out of his car seat.
I've already fallen asleep once on the couch, so I should get this done before the lights go out again.
I feel as though I must admit something at long last. It is a weight that I've carried with me for far too many years. It is time, I say, to lighten the load.
So here it is: I do not understand these people.
Not one bit.
They drink and curse and are always brandishing their pointy weapons. Their hygiene leaves a lot to be desired. If they're awake, they're looking for a fight. They have an unhealthy obsession with treasure. Don't get me wrong on that last one - gold and jewels and all that are great, truly. But with these guys it's nearly all they think about!
That doesn't seem healthy.
And, I mean honestly, what is with this insistence that their leader have a parrot on his shoulder at all times? Why? And why must they dress me up like them?
Which just leads to another question, doesn't it?
Which one of these foul beasts sewed my tiny bandana and eye patch? And didn't he know that both of my eyes work just fine, thank you very much?