Dear Diary,

I miss my flask.

What was I thinking, giving that flask to Dylan? That flask is what kept me from losing my mind. That flask was my friend when I was friendless, trapped in this miserable place. That flask is what kept me from slicing Thomas' neck open with my boneblades. That flask is what dulled my brain when I had to spend the night with yet another homely woman that smelled as if she hadn't bathed in three weeks.

I wonder if Dylan still has that flask. He promised he would get us out of this place - yet another broken promise. He's probably drinking from that flask himself. Then again, I don't think Dylan Hunt could handle the stuff in that flask, considering he is genetically inferior to me. He probably emptied it and filled it with a stash of Sparky Cola he has hidden on board the Andromeda. It wouldn't surprise me, considering what else he had hidden in those quarters of his. I wonder what he does with that wig and sword, anyway? I shudder to think. And I thought I had sunk low.

I miss my flask. Maybe I'll con Beka into giving me a ride on the Maru. I'd like to snoop around Dylan's quarters a bit. Who knows, I might find something else of interest while I'm there. I'm not touching that wig, though.