Dear Diary and Whosoever is Bothering to Read This,

My life has ceased to matter.

Well, all right, let us not be overdramatic. Or rather, let not me be overdramatic. As for you, I don't know you. You might always be overdramatic. You might be as enthusiastic as a sponge. You might call yourself Tony though you're really Lucy and ride a unicycle down the street looking for your lost canteen of mosquitoes and singing the musical "Carmen" in perfect French. You might even wear stockings that don't match your wig.

You could be a raving lunatic for all I know. You probably are for reading this. Or maybe these entries have made you lose your mind.

They're certainly making me lose mine.

I was just contemplating such thoughts idly over brunch. I was in the middle of peeling an orange to go with whatever form of meat the chef claimed I was eating (it was Barbossa-free, which was all the reassurance I needed) when I realized how many interesting ways there are to essentially say, "I have gone mad."

For example: I have gone mad.

Or how about: I've lost my marbles.

And then there's: I've gone off the deep end.

Let's not forget: I've been admitted to the funny house.

Here's a goody: My elevator doesn't go to the top floor.

(Actually, my elevator doesn't go anywhere. That would be rather difficult, considering I haven't the slightest idea what that contraption is. Perhaps it's a combination between an elephant and an alligator, which I believe would be rather frightening. In that case, not only do I hope it doesn't go to the top floor, but I hope it doesn't go anywhere, much less near me.)

Whosoever, you can see my dilemma.

And if you can't, you're blind, in which case I don't know how you'd be reading this diary/journal in the first place.

But at any rate. As I was so philosophically lamenting,

My life has ceased to matter, or, more specifically, my life has ceased to matter to anyone important.

Which basically means my life is unimportant, doesn't it? Oh, the terror of my trials, the bane of my banality, the utter uselessness of my…umbrellas? Underwear? Confound these alliterations!

Groves has since taken full control of the Navy. And by "full control," I mean he has spent his time lollygagging about on the decks of the most expensive ships and strutting around like it's his own personal catwalk. Even Commodore Norrington refrained from being this vain, and that's saying something.

Why, just this morning he complained that the ocean was far too watery to sail upon. I must have looked confused, because he stalked off, griping that I just don't understand.

Perhaps I don't.

Despite all my efforts, though, I can say nothing to change Groves' ways. I've tried suggesting that perhaps he sail out to locate my daughter and her friends. Admittedly, concern plagues me. After three days, they have failed to achieve any sort of correspondence with Port Royal.

I'd like to believe they are having such a jolly good time they have forgotten to return home.

I'd also like to believe the globe is flat, the universe is geocentric, and the Tooth Fairy bestows coins under my pillow for every molar I lose.

Shame to Columbus and Galileo for ruining my fun! And shame to whoever proves the nonexistence of that winged tooth-lover!

Oh, but joy! For good news arrived at my doorstep this morning, bringing with it the light of hopefulness. (And now I will stop copying lines out of poetry books and try to write respectably.)

The blacksmith who I submitted the ad for replied by mail. She recalled hearing of me and says she is looking forward to accepting her position as Port Royal's skilled blacksmith.

The donkey still has not turned up.