When I'm not trying to maul my dad for amputating my wing after a bad fight with a raccoon, I'm screaming, dancing, backpacking, and eating all your blueberries. I am an as***le and I'm here to wreak havoc for another 70 years. Amazons can live into their 80s and I'm only a teen, so joke's on you. It got ripped off by a raccoon (not kidding). My dad, who is a veterinarian, saved me. I try to kill
him all the time. Clearly, I am not grateful. I get my name after my mom's actual human friend, who also lost his right arm in an accident (we got his blessing). I like to think of it this way: together, he and I make a whole, but he got all the nice and I got all the spice. This also means that I can't fly, but my parents are thankful because I would definitely fly and bite the s**t out of you. No, my wing can't grow back--that's not how my science works. Where I lack in flight, I make up for my excellent climbing skills; hence, the nickname "Death-Grip Claude."
