Ahoy and avast, me mateys!
As ye can tell, there's not been much piratical activity happenin' over here on Le Poule. Yar, it's hard to be dastardly when yer rum money comes from such a swill-sucking vocation as "customer service." Sinister-Boots has been forced to play nice with the shriveled old buzzards who come to get their ticker medication from "ye olde pharmacy."
Well, the important thing is that the ship is kept well-grogged, so Sinister-Boots does what has to be done to keep all hands on deck happy.
So we've just been floatin' along, with nary a breeze to fill our lackluster sails.
Until tonight, that is.
We called to port on some West-Indies island late this mornin', and all hands went ashore to enjoy such wenching, gambling, and drinking activites as can only be found on dry land. Naturally, we all gathered back on the ship fer some of Darkwater Duff's famous salmagundi (and because it's supper-time, dammit, and we eat together like a family or I'll have ye made ready fer swingin' on the yardarm!).
Then, right in the middle of the general din of all of us tradin' stories about our onshore exploits, Stormwatcher starts to talk all fancy about something' like "The Nature of Reality," or some such head-scratchin' nonsense.
"You know, we think of the world as something external that we engage in and that functions outside of ourselves," she said. "But in reality, we are each creating our own world within our minds."
Silence around the table.
"Think about it," she continued. "Each person's version of their reality is totally dependent on their life experience, the constructs of 'identity' that they've built around themselves, and their personal set of rules that they have compiled as to what is 'right.' But this person who they've built all these rules and identities around doesn't exist. This 'me' that we're so obsessed with is a constantly-changing mass of cells and thought (which comes from where, by the way?). And we're always fighting battles over who is 'right,' when each side is both 'right,' according exactly to his or her standards. Nothing is real like we think it is. Form is emptiness."
We all sat and looked at her, open-mouthed. And then, for a second, I thought I saw what she meant...
Then I shot her.
We pirates don't think, we swashbuckle. And she was due for it anyway, after that disastrous ship-namin' debacle.
So now ol' Stormwatcher lies in Davy Jones' locker, and we're all much the better for it.
'Twas an exciting afternoon.
Well, back to floating along on the smooth seas of customer service. Until the next exciting event, mateys, may ye all define and populate yer own realities with attractive hairy men and large-breasted women.
Damn you, Stormwatcher!