Dear Diary,
Three months on this ship and I'm already starting to show signs of lunacy. It pains me to consider questioning the integrity of the shifty-eyed gypsy who sold me our desalination pump in Kiev, though it may be wise to write a note instructing the maintenance crew to conduct a complete diagnostic to ensure our physical and mental well-being. Nevertheless, even with my flagging cognitive prowess, I'm confident the innate values and beliefs that form my spiritual core remain unshaken.
Contrary to what others say, I have a conscious. Yes I know what you've heard, but I'm here to set things straight. Several especially close-minded individuals on the council have made attempts to discredit the opinions I've recently formed toward some matters pertaining to Quelins on the baseless grounds that a man, namely me, cannot claim to possess a healthy moral compass while simultaneously harboring a belief in the genetic superiority of his own tribe.
Few except Eugene (aka Tuna Skull) have been willing to hear me out, though everyone knows Eugene's a Quelin-lover and is merely engineering a poor attempt to throw the rest of the council off his scent. Don't get me wrong; I appreciate his support, but sometimes I can't help but enjoy ribbing him about how he probably wouldn't think twice about mixing his seed with one of those fetid humanoids. I made a joke indicating as much in front of his wife at the spring officers' dinner and she glared at me with a facial expression immediately stricken by an almost irrepressible fury. It was soon gone of course just as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with a conciliatory mask that belied her rage but reinforced an obvious truth. Unless you want to watch your husband impaled on the business end of my laser septor, don't fuck with High Priestess Terry Phelps.
Sincerely,
Terry Phelps
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