Fisherman’s Wharf
When Sarah was here, she begged and begged to go to the fisherman’s wharf. I agreed that we could go, but declared that I would not like it and refused to have any fun. Truth be told, it was actually kind of enjoyable, but I pretended to have a terrible time so as not to send Sarah mixed messages.
Sure, the number of “fishermen” seemed somewhat dubious, but any time you get me next to bodies of water I am generally happy.
While at the wharf, we visited the Musée Mécanique, which is full of demonic machines powered by orphan hearts.
This thing… I cannot describe. Its laughter is the sound of a million kittens being murdered.
Oh yeah, various avian life enjoys my apartment complex. This… egret(?) visited, looking for loose koi, goldfish, and whatever that other fish is that looks to Don like trout.
OMG. Creepy dolls!!! At night they get out of their glass cases and prowl Fisherman’s Wharf for unsuspecting victims. They also keep the seal population in check.
Not dolls: mechanical automata. THEY MOVE ON THEIR OWN.
“…but I pretended to have a terrible time so as not to send Sarah mixed messages.”
So, you confess the truth here? Clever fellow. White man carry words in bag.
We all know that girls can’t read.
It’s so sad, isn’t it. John had to read your post to me and then type you this message.
This is John speaking: Personally, I’m glad Reade can’t read. She’s insufferable enough as it is. Imagine if she had the world’s news and literature at her disposal. Woman’s place is in the kitchen and, well, you know. My motto has always been, get ‘em young, treat ‘em bad, tell ‘em nothing. Unfortunately I got your mom when she was old, but I try to make the best of it.
What they don’t know can’t hurt ‘em.
I’d comment, but I can’t read, so I wouldn’t know what I was commenting about.