My head fucking hurts.
So, last night, Hunter Bond and his team enjoyed half a bottle of that Achenar Blue together with me, a quantity that would make my old friend Mike Marquette
blush from a thousand light-years away. Needless to say, despite my legendary capabilities to hold my liquor, it's a bit more difficult around friends of what is essentially the same family in our great Legion.
Still, my head fucking
The night, I don't regret. We told more stories. I laughed at the awe in all of their eyes as I detailed my experience achieving glory in battle against the Cayutorme Syndicate under our patron, Admiral Lucius Lavigny.
They told me of their significant discoveries poring over the massive amounts of data brought back by our explorers, and even more serious stories of personal origin.
As is my standard reaction to such solemn personal tales, I recall saying at least twice: "Well, we need more shots, now."
I woke up laying flat on my stomach next to the bulkhead leading to the bridge of the Oculus. Thankfully, it wasn't in a pool of vomit. But, believe you me, I wish it was, because my head fucking hurts, and so does my stomach.
It looks like I entered into my private exploration log a few personal frustrations towards Admiral Lavigny, but more notably, a commitment to scan only seventy of the possible radio signals during this expedition, which is a notion I agree with. Apparently, I had come to the conclusion that, if I rushed the scans to truly hit all 450+ systems, it would not constitute a thorough enough search.
Good job, drunk me. I will follow that judgement.
I'll clean up the mess we all made in the other decks last night. Those are stories for another time. But for now, we're behind on scanning, if I'm to commit to the pledge I made. Alcoholism was eradicated in the Federation, so I proudly forge ahead with it (quite literally) on my breath.