Am I a weirdo? Yes. A dangerous weirdo? Probably not. A disturbed weirdo?...Absolutely, when I write things like this. Takes place post- Operation:Hibernation.

My name is Herbert Percival Bear. They did not tell me this. This I know for myself. Is it the only thing I know for myself? Is it the last gasping of my own... humanity? Am I just an old, outdated figment of the past? Or is this my determination? My defiance?

Is this what makes me different, or is there something more?

They tell me I am unlike them. They have flippers and beaks. I have paws with pads... Sharp claws and teeth. That is true.

They tell me I am dangerous. They seek to undermine me, to keep the peace: Their petty, boring peace. They say that I am a criminal. My goals are hazards, and my methods disastrous... well... That is true.

But I am trying.

They tell me that I do not have hopes and dreams and fears—not good ones, anyways. They enjoy their cold, harsh little island in the raging sea, and prefer to stay in igloos and have parties with hearths and warm seaweed pizzas, none of which I am invited to. I wish for hot sand and warm water, and cool lemonade on the beach.

They ignore me, then raze my plans when I attempt to get what I want the only way I know how. For that is the only way to get what I want. They will disallow anything more from me. For they say that I have terrible hopes, dangerous dreams, and no fear at all. Am I expected to believe them? Evidently I am.

They tell me that I must be dull to be accepted. I must give up my own hopes and dreams in order to "fit in". As if I would want that. As if I would be happy victimized by the elements as soon as I stepped foot outside of a tiny, cramped igloo. As if they would ever accept me—the one who they claim is the source of all of their problems.

Have I burned bridges? Yes. Have I done things that I regret? Yes.

Am I the villain here? No.

Am I the victim? Certainly not.

For I am able, fighting with tooth and claw that I have and they do not, to achieve my dreams in a world where their ideals reign supreme. My ideas will be put forth, regardless of what they say.

They tell me I am different. Dangerous. To be ignored. They tell me that I have no soul, no heart and no morals.

They tell me that I am useless...

They tell me to sleep.

I do not want to sleep. And yet I do.

I do. I sleep.

In a box—a cage— I bide my days away, sleeping here in my easy chair... monitored. Caged. Kept prisoner here, practically in my own home. At that point, I ask: What home? Is it home when I am chased and invaded? Is it home when I am an outcast wherever I go? No. And why should it be?

I'm just a menace, or so they tell me.

I'm a monster, or so they tell me.

I have no purpose, no place, no friends... well. Klutzy, I suppose. Nonetheless, he doesn't seem to ever know what he's doing. Neither do I, for that matter.

I know what I want. I want to be left alone in peace and quiet, free of daft flippered fowl, and warm for once in my hopeless and sterile existence!

But no. No. I've never achieved my ambitions. They forbid it. They work against me, try to keep me from comfort.

Yet, they never even try to send me away again. They've never successfully exiled me to someplace warm. Truth be known, I would like nothing more than to be given supplies, a ship, and sent on my way. And I'm still stuck here on this horrible island with these insufferable penguins.

What can I do about it? Nothing, as it were.

Devoid of hopes and dreams and fear, feelings and morality, purpose and place; robbed of my single solitary goal in life, over and over and over again.

I am in a cage. Trapped. Stifled. Gasping to get out. Failing over and over again.

I am different. Intelligent. Dangerous.

I am a menace. A monster.

I am heartless.

Cruel.

Ambitious.

I am Herbert P. Bear, Esquire.

I am asleep.

For now.