It's not REALLY my name. After I hatched in western Iceland (over seven millenia ago) the local elves brought naming gifts - which included a basket of pastries (crowberry and bearberry tarts, call them pies). My wobbly legs made me fall face first into the basket. I came out licking the sticky mixture. The elves were laughing with good humor at the pie-eyed dragon. The rest, as they say, is mythology.
