From the Desk of Director Sarah Martinez, Entry 3
October 11, 2101
“No.”
Kind of a curt response to the woman in charge of securing humanity’s future, don’t you think, diary? If I valued my time with money, just based on the budget I work with, fifteen minutes is somewhere in the realm of $60,000,000 per entry. I figured the powers that be would find that helpful, but apparently not.
“You’re burning out, Sayre.”
“It’s a marathon, not a sprint, Sayre.”
“Your hair isn’t supposed to fall out from stress, Sayre.”
While I’ll give them and my stylist that last one, but I don’t get why people don’t understand that because things are “better than they were,” it doesn’t mean things are better. Half the planet alive today doesn’t remember a time when the old coastal cities were habitable, or that places like the Cape of Good Hope used to have fresh water that wasn’t shipped in.
Like Sherry. She’s a young, peppy thing that makes me tired just thinking about her. Smart as hell, but fuck, tone it down a little please. Some of us need coffee jammed straight into veins in the morning.
She doesn’t believe that Venice was above water in my lifetime despite the old videos. For fuck's sake, she gave me the most pitying look in the world the other day and told me in no uncertain terms that there was no way humans landed on the Moon in the 1960s and how sweet it was that I believed that.
WE HAVE A TOURIST ATTRACTION SETUP AROUND THE APOLLO 11 LANDING SITE
I just want to—UGH. The cocksure certainty just wriggles right under my confidence armor and makes me want to grab her by the throat and…
Okay. That’s probably not healthy. Fine. I’ll give you that one, Friez.
Maybe I am a little worked up. Maybe I am on the edge of burnout. But you know what? How am I supposed to be confident in leaving this mission to these assholes when they don’t even believe empirical evidence?
How am I supposed to sleep when I feel those fucking things in my head?
Nope. Don’t want to think about that.
Time’s up.
Oh thank God.
Until next time,
Sarah Martinez
