The bastard didn't call me.

That was what I thought of at first, but it didn't turn out to be the case. In fact, it was really kind of sweet, and necessary. While I was at prayer I'd hoped he'd leave me a message because I'd left my comm off the hook. I'm sorry Milton, you're cute, but not so cute you can interrupt divine communion. Well, as it turned out he'd gone ashore with an advance party to scout out rumours of native unrest, and did he ever find unrest. He told me all about it over the communicator and warned us what to expect. He is such a sweetheart looking out for me like that. I'll have to make it up to him soon.

As for make-ups. I'm beginning to think the Starfleet Drill Instructors have been getting lax. Yeoman Brundle is going to end up on report if he doesn't shape up in a hurry. I admit I was a bit hasty when I closed the door in his face, but it was either that or I would have screamed at him for telling me Milton had ditched. Alright. I'm fucking sorry already. As sorry as I'll get to some jackass who asks if I'm doing a striptease when I take my gloves off. But one more asinine remark from him will get him KP for the rest of his career.

Speaking of gloves, the textbook on advanced dermal regeneration techniques has finally arrived and I'll be studying that soon even though what I really should be doing is studying hard for that pre med exam. But if I can rebuild the skin on Milton's hands it will all be worth it, besides, even if I dropped everything and studied I don't think I'd be able to pass. I'll just challenge the exam again in the summer. Anything for that darling Milton, he has to be the most perfect man ever. I wonder why he's so sad all the time. I'll have to snoop a bit and see, but it reeks of heartbreak. I know I can be a good balm for that, if he'll let me. Alas, more work cut out for myself.

While I have the time I'll mention K'Torr is definitely going to be bald handed, but not most of the way to the elbows like me and I think he might be able to get away with a skin graft on the backs of his hands, but I'll save that for later. He's just too young and I'd prefer to know that dermal regen book backwards and forwards first. T'Saal is going to be another story. She inherited my ears to a certain extent and she's indeed losing the fur I'd hoped would mask the webbing effect. At least they're not experiencing the same troubles I've had maintaining a full mane. But they're finally in preschool and getting along fine with their classmates as I'd hoped. Obviously, the Starship environment offers enough racial diversity so that interracial suspicion and hatred is not a factor at all. Cubs deserve to live in such a place where harmony is the rule, not the exception.

New California is a dump, I'm sorry to say. It stinks of garbage, the roads are bad and I swear I heard from the mob I chased off for tossing rocks at Demian's children someone go on about "attacking Starfleet personnel for extra credit." The very thought of educational credit given for hate crimes is beyond the scope of my imagination and so just as soon as this hunk of junk motor vehicle in dire need of cleaning catches up with the funeral party I'll mention this to Milton. He'll know what to do; he's so smart that way. Then I'll have him for lunch, my treat.