Carson brushed across the next page with his fingers. The paper was a little wavy. With a snicker he looked at the date; now he knew what was surely about to come now. He clearly remembered how horribly unpeachy this certain day had been for him.

But how had it felt for a wee drama queen like Rodney?

He'd see:

Dear Diary,

Sorry for throwing my wet socks onto you, I didn't mean to much you up.

Hell, I wished I'd no longer be dependent on that stupid tumble dryer Zelenka has decided to McGyver around with for his idiotic experiments.

(Note to myself: Finally get myself a stupid cloth-line to hang the stuff out.)

But why do I have wet socks at all?

I was taken HOSTAGE by this goddamned Colya psychopath and his freaky Genii ballet of uniformed bootlickers in this ass-soaking storm that nearly destroyed our precious city because this selfish nit showed up and settled his fat buttocks onto our territory, not letting me WORK in PEACE.

But that's not all, I deliberately played bullet catcher for Elizabeth (so heroic, come on, you know me) as that asshole threatened to shoot us after Sheppard had threatened him. (The show-off. Why didn't he just shut up and quietly blow these Genii bastards to hell when he got a chance to?)

At last the cavalry came to free us in the end and I hit the button to save another day.

Aw, these were a gruesome couple of days, I need a nap now.

Talk to you later, Rodney

xxxxx

All right, a bundle of nerves, as usual. Rodney definitely needed some days off before he became dangerous the next time things like that would happen; hopefully not too soon.

At least now Carson had found an explanation why said tumble dryer had fried his pajamas last week, he made himself a mental note to procure a cloth-line for his own quarter as well.

With a frown he had a look at the next entry:

Dear Diary,

Here I am again. Just happened to muse about my poor Scottish colleague. He's still lying in infirmary lamenting about his, oh so horrible, headaches.

Really now, the way he got them is too funny. He wasn't carefully enough and this Genii fighter cat Teyla used to be cross with, knocked him into concussion with one aimed hit.

As they dragged him back to the control room later on he looked like a caterpillar had rolled right over him.

Later on he was still so whiny and groggy complaining about every little thing that had happened to him, so that I had to be careful not to get a splitting headache myself as I was forced to assemble a makeshift dressing for my poor, injured arm because monsieur needed a rest.

All right, that's all for now. Yours, Rodney

xxxxx

Okay, that was too much for Carson. Next time Rodney was tormented by headaches he'd surely drain his aspirin supply so that he could truly experience how bloody ugly his concussion had felt.

And who said he had been whining? It had just been a smidgen too much for him that Ford had constantly kept telling him to shut up and obey. Rodney would have been pissed as well, but of course he was too self-important to admit it.

The pesky Canadian lad would soon realize that self-importance led him nowhere on the long run, especially not when he pissed off his usually compassionate and open-minded Scottish physician, oh no.

xxxxx

AN: So, some more diary vexation for you. I tried to speed up so I've now used my lesson off to finish this chapter. I'm gonna have lots of fun in my 3.30 economy & politics class, sigh.

CU soon, Baalsgirl