April 26, 2194 - 1300h ... Now officially one million hours into this crap.
Fine. It's - what? Hour number 38 or 39? Whatever.
Remember the first time you said a really bad word like "futch"? Remember how empowered you felt, while equally as fearful that somehow your mom was going to find out? Like there's some Tattletale Fairy keeping tabs on you at all times.
Well, that fairy damn well would have needed to hire a shitload of freelancers to monitor my cussing ass for the last four futching hours. I shit you not, you bastards. I think lack of worthwhile brain activity over the last day and a half has lowered my IQ to the point that I either can only speak simple words or I have given myself Tourette Syndrome.
When should I start honestly worrying that I might actually die out here? I've got about a month's worth of food and an aquifiax. It doesn't make sense to me, as remotely lost as I am, that there isn't some way to lead someone in my direction. After all, *somebody* knows I'm out here.
BITCH ASSHOLE FUTCHING DOUCHEBAG!!
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