We sit at an outpost on a strange planet while one of our crew is in a meeting. We were tricked into this by enemy agents, and now we’re forced to spend what seems like hours in a hostile breakroom. My Somewhat-non-Vulcan-Companion is switching between periods of slumber and passive wakefulness. I write this with hopes that if I place it in a bottle and send it off on a meteor someone will come to our rescue. We have procured two canned drinks, which according to their starboard information panels contain a host of negative ingredients, while not being a significant source of other nutrients.
Some pepper shakers are before us, but we have found that they could not be converted to plasma cannons as we had hoped. The only items with which i can hope to console myself are a pair of shades, an MSU Bulldogs cap, some magnets, a pocket knife, my iPod, my cell phone, and, to top it all, a copy of The Christian Book of Mystical Verse and my Bible, I will now leave off writing to attend to these last two items.