Well when I went to see the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie again (free on the Navy Base, foshizzle), I was struck by the fact that Davy Jones and his crew don't seem to do much except play with dice and recruit new crew members. Now, obviously, this cannot be ALL that they do. And somehow I had this idea. Hopefully it hasn't been done before. But if it has, I don't really care.

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Tuesday, 3 March, 1750, 8.32 P.M.

I received this diary for

"Diary" is a very effeminate term. I don't believe I shall be using it in the future.

I received this journal

"Journal" is not such a good word, either. It has a rather pathetic ring to it, as if I purposely did not use "diary". Were I to use the word "journal", it would be immediately assumed that I used it upon careful consideration of the word "diary" and then decided to use "journal" in its stead in an effort to assert my masculinity, which, of course, diminishes its purpose. And of course it is ludicrous to even think that I would need to assert my masculinity.

I received this captain's log for my birthday yesterday. I am a Pisces. Rather appropriate, I believe, elle oh elles. My birthday is almost the same as Ron Weasley's! I finally put aside my captainly duties and finished the new Harry Potter book. My goodness! Such drama.

The crew threw for me a quite pleasant twenty-ninth birthday. I think this was my best twenty-ninth birthday ever. I wish I could know who gave this log to me. Oh, unfortunately for me, the crew was rather frightened and could only throw my gifts at my feet. I suppose it must be rather terrifying to see a cephalopod/crab/Scotsman completely bladdered. I wouldn't know, for as far as I am concerned I am the only one. It was a very special day, because it had been exactly ten years since I had been on land, so we clambered to a pub and well, I must say, when you go out with Jonesy and the crew, well, hey hey! Sometimes things happen that you can't erase, eh? Eh?

Today I was joking with that Turner man. I told him I might have to fire him for drunkenness. Then I said, "Hypocrite warning!"

I don't think he understood. He is rather a bit slower than I might have hoped. I think perhaps the mussels lodged in his neck may have something to do with it. He doesn't take very good care of himself, that man. He's rather stiff. He smells rather odd. Whereas I and the rest of the crew smell appropriately of salt and duck droppings, Mr Turner smells of something resembling dog food. Or perhaps each crew member has his own unique aroma, but I do not spend enough time with each one individually to realise it. Mayhap I should launch a project wherein I spend quality time with each crew member to strengthen local relations.

Though I must say, I was getting a little bit too friendly yesterday, when we went drinking. I believe I was hitting on Koleniko, though I cannot remember it at all. The only reason I come to this conclusion is that today he winked at me!

I don't know what to do. Nobody has winked at me since my fourteenth twenty-ninth birthday party. And I only think she winked at me because of all that sand that was kicked into her face.

I know that I am decidedly handsome—but I must wonder if perhaps I intimidate women. It must be difficult to attempt to talk to somebody of my sexual calibre. Oh, the tender babes! Of course they

God's feet—I just got chocolate on my smoking jacket! One of my cronies gave me a chocolate button, and I dropped it, and it melted all over me! How annoying.

Well, yesterday's twenty-ninth birthday party was rather fun. They played that one Santana song.

On the way back to the Dutchman, though, somebody was making fun of me. He said I'm not cool. He said I am old. I'm not old! I am cool! So I slapped him. I slapped him and asked him if "unnecessary" torture was cool.

Let him think about that.

Well, on the bright side, my tentacles looked really great today. And I'm much cooler than that Turner. He's a dork.

Friday, 6 March, 1750, 11.14 P.M.

I was so depressed today. I eventually felt so melancholy that I decided to paint a self-portrait in monochromatic oils. But while I was painting I realised that I wanted to paint to music. And what better music than my own organ-playing? So I decided to play a piece of my own composition while painting.

It didn't work out the way I'd planned and now I have to go find a way to get oil paints out of cambric.

Sunday, 8 March, 1750, 1.08 A.M.

I was still sad today so I decided to Google my name. I'm actually mentioned in quite a few song lyrics. Frenzal Rhomb has the right idea! Ha ha ha. Sometimes my locker is mentioned on Rocko's Modern Life, too, which makes me feel better, even though they're really talking about the Monkee.

I honestly don't know what the big deal is about my locker. It's all been blown so out of proportion. I mean, come on, you stuff a few guys in their lockers in high school and suddenly you're this hulking bully for the rest of your life.

I never got around to decorating my locker. Everybody else has photos and little magnetic holders for quills and pencils, but my locker door is completely bare. I think I should decorate it. I'm thinking maybe I'll start with a mirror and add to it as I go. Only thing is, where am I going to find a mirror when I'm in the middle of the ocean? There are a few on deck, but the crew likes to use them for coke and I wouldn't want to deprive them of that. I really think it's much crueler to keep them on the stuff than to have them ultimately get over it.