Dear Journal Diary,
I can no longer go on living a lie. So I will say it here, clearly and in ink: I prefer the word "diary" to "journal," and whosoever has a problem with that is irrelevant, firstly; and secondly, whosoever that Whosoever is should not even know I use the term "diary," for this Whosoever should not be reading my most personal statements. Whosoever, whosoever you are, if you dare read these words, I will find you and track you down. Though not necessarily in that order. By George, I am awfully defensive this evening.
Goodness knows I would be in a far better mood had I not received daunting word from the Harbor Master this morning. Via radio (yes, I know, enjoy the anachronism—and if you are befuddled over that word, look it up and enrich your vocabulary), I received word that the plane had landed successfully at its destination. Unfortunately, there appears to be a slight fuel shortage. The Harbor Master claimed it had plenty to make the journey both to Captain Jack's old island and back to Port Royal, but someone apparently miscalculated. Either that or they were having a grand time wasting fuel on frivolous antics during the flight. After all, need I reiterate the characters on the plane?
No, I need not—but I will anyway. This diary contains two hundred neatly lined pages and I don't have that many interesting things to say, so I will divulge all that I can now before my wrist collapses into a cramp. Darn you, arthritis!
The Harbor Master, as far as I know, went off searching for some type of fuel resource. I do not know the likelihood of finding one on the island, but he is a crafty man and I am sure he will stumble across something.
As for the rest of the passengers, I know very little, thanks to someone's lack of electronic skills. I spoke to a muffled voice for a brief moment, someone garrulously muttering about what Internet course he should sign up for, and then click. Deadened reception. No more radio. Zilch. Nada. Why am I speaking Spanish?
All the Harbor Master told me is that my reluctant son, Commodore Norrington, appears to have developed a rather curious twitch, made all the worse when bantering comments are made regarding his nose. Captain Jack has exhausted every last drop of Captain Morgan, and then some. No word yet about my precious daughter, or new son-in-law, or the other half of my sons (that sounds awkward), Gillette. Process of elimination seems to indicate that Barbossa was the one typing away on his laptop, and that he was the one who disconnected the radio, but I find that highly unlikely. Then again, he's supposed to be dead. 'Tis a strange world we live in.
I must appologize, Diary, but there seems to be a bit of a ruckus happening downstairs. A Mr. Brown has just entered, I believe. One of the servants has just related to me that he is in desperate search for his donkey. The animal is missing again, apparently.
I really must be ending this entry, but as for the dinner party two night's ago: Commodore Groves seemed delighted with the notion of assuming command of the Navy. I have yet to convince him to dye the wigs. I am insisting it will brighten everyone's disposition. Perhaps all we need is to show our true colors. To strike a pose. To feel like a woman.
Whosoever, I suggest you stop reading at this precise instant.
Well, I can only hope that everyone's disposition is increasingly jolly on the island. What a perfect time for the group to reconnect and learn the true meaning of friendship.