Captains log, Stardate 03132014: the crew and I all suffer from stomach aches caused by the absurd diet of crap we have ingested. I myself have not been this uncomfortable since that first day back to school on a Monday after the weekend in which I made out with that Danish foreign exchange student. Notwithstanding the foregoing, today was glorious. There was sand, and heated pools, and sand, and surf, and sand, and kites, and castles, and sand. Sandy towels. Sandy butt cracks. Sand on the pages of my book. Sand on my – oh God get it off! Get it off! Get it – (pant) – sorry, sorry, no no, you’re fine, it’s just, um, carry on, I’m just gonna go stand over there far away from all of you forever . . . (shudder). Where was I? American Express chose to wait until I was in the noisiest venue ever to slap a fraud alert on my card and deny my Rainforest Cafe charges. One long and incomprehensible phone call to Mumbai later – a call that occurred during one of the faux rainforest thunderstorms – and either my card was reactivated or I was somehow placed on the No Fly List. And while the crew is almost obscenely happy, I confess I am beginning to become aware of subtle shifts in my own metal health. I find myself daydreaming about companions who do not talk, or whine, or moan, or ask anything at all of me. Companions who instead appreciate the beauty – indeed, the very spirituality – of silence for its own sake. Instead I find myself shouting at the crew about how they should not shout. And for a brief moment today, I considered sending Bosun Kicky to a North Korean labor camp after he began to cry for claptrap from store X when he had expressly agreed earlier that the glow-in-the-dark jellyfish paperweight bullshit he got at store Y would preclude any further bullshit purchases. While I held my ground on this point, I did acquiesce to five tickets to the restaurant’s animatronic “River Adventure Ride”, which – at $5.99 a head – was the very definition of a bullshit purchase. Hamilton out.