Captain's log:

I fear for my life. Woke up to Brian watching me sleep. He was stroking the head of a dead squirrel he named Frankie.

He had little antlers fashioned out of small twigs.

Brian is mumbling and speaking in tongues. I believe he has been infected with cabin feaver. All forms of punishment have been deemed ineffective.

I tried reasoning with him. He gave me the finger, yelled an obscene remark involving butter, a Freddie Kruger mask, and a nine iron, and ran out the door. The last I saw him he was running naked through the corn field. I attempted to throw a vest to him but he exclaimed that it takes a silver bullet to kill a ginger.

If anything should happen to me, the ginger (AKA Chuckie) is to blame.

Provisions are low. We are out of pop tarts. While Brian is out, I'll rumage his ruck sack to ensure he isn't sneaking food from the mess tent.

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