Iron Man is telling me it's June 6 and not May 31. I'm telling Iron Man he's a total fucking idiot if he thinks I could have gone a whole week without even noticing it. Granted, it's quiet enough that there wouldn't be anything interesting to notice, but the piercing boredom would have constantly reminded me of exactly what time it is. Time slows to a fucking crawl when you're in space. Literally, too. Fuck. Okay. Let me think.
Last thing I remember is heading to my bunk to see what was messing around there. Then I wake up this morning and Iron Man tells me I'm on maintenance duty for a month because I shirked work for a week. Fuck you, Iron Man, it's only been a day (I tell him), and then he shows me the date on the computer. Fucking June 6. So I go along with it. Now I'm on maintenance duty. Making sure this piece of junk works. Like fucking clockwork. Goddamn clockwork. Clocks. Time. Clockwork. Damn. Fuck me.
Red October, over and out.
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