You Know Nothing of the Crunch.

Captain’s log. Stardate: 5510.5

Greetings from the desolate land of Any-place-in-Louisiana-besides-NewOrleans.  We have reached an outpost called Covington, at which I have found very little evidence of intelligent life, and the situation is becoming desperate.  My parents, my only companions, have fallen victim to a strange slumber and have been in its clutches for approximately one hour now.  The time is currently 8:40 pm, and I have yet to become infected by the ailment, which leads me to believe that anyone under the age of 50 must be immune.

However, I seem to have fallen victim to a different sort of local illness.  I find myself having strange urges I am not familiar with.  My symptoms include following up to seven new people on Twitter, and sending a total of one tweet.  Even more disturbing: I have the urge to send more.  In the course of the last hour, I have had ideas and urges to execute up to 4 different tweets.  So far I have not succumbed to these temptations to broadcast dull and unimaginative information about my personal life to those who do not give any kind of a shit, but I am grieved to report more complex aspects of my developing condition.  A strange urge to turn on the television has overcome me.  This sort of behavior is very foreign indeed, and I wonder if there might be some sort of spores in the air that are infecting my neurological functioning to the point that my brain desires to be force-fed either tasteless humor about casual sex and awkward social situations, or mundane images of stereotypical housewives and their over-hyped satisfaction with various cleaning products.  Whatever the case, I am afraid I will need to check myself in at sickbay because McCoy seems to think I am displaying symptoms of a common local syndrome known as Boredom. 

I will attempt to continue this log as long as my symptoms do not worsen.

This is Captain Rachel, signing off.