Monday
Diary, did you know that it takes ten hours to fly to Madagascar? TEN hours. I mean, it's not like I didn't just get back from Siberia, for god's sake. And I tried to make myself look unavailable, pretending to read that Tom Clancy book I picked up in the airport gift shop. But the strange guy with the overbite in the seat next to me wanted to talk. I *hate* that! Whenever I looked over at him, (which I tried not to) all I saw were those big sweat stains under his arms - yuk. I mean, what am I going to say. "Yes, my last double agent mission for the CIA went very well thank you, and I hope not to get killed on this one." I wish people would just leave me alone, you know?

Tuesday
Francie forgot to set the coffee maker again this morning. I'm trying to get to work, I'm late already, and now this. It's not like I ask her to do a lot around here. I ask her to do *one* thing for me, and she can't even do that.

Wednesday
Got back from Sri Lanka this afternoon, and not a minute too soon. The guy at the car repair place said the Cavalier (I call her "Wanda") is going to need new tie rod ends or something. Maybe Marshall can explain it to me when I go back to SD-6 tomorrow (the air in there is so dry - it's playing havoc with my hair). I mean, he was so good with that lipstick case/machine gun thing last week.

Thursday
The thing is, I clearly marked the brown bag as "Sydney's lunch." In red pen! Sloane is nattering at me, like he does, I'm all distracted, Dad's trying to get my attention, and at last I break away, looking so forward to the turkey sandwich I had in the commissary fridge. AND I GET THERE AND IT'S GONE. I'll tell you, Diary, I was so ready to just find the person that took that sandwich and crush their windpipe. But I had *things* to do. (I'll bet it was Sally. I'm sorry, but she's such a bitch.)

Friday
Dad is being really passive-aggressive. He's always coming to me and saying things like, "Your mother is evil. All she wants to do is kill you. Blah blah Blah." I've got a lot of things to deal with right now, Dad, and if you have a problem with Mom, you should just go and talk to her yourself. Right? I mean, that's what I *would* have said to him. But I wimped out. :-( He's always so tense and frowny all the time. I think he needs a date.

Sunday
I hate wigs. I'm sorry, but I really, really hate them. I do the working out, I do the studying, all that, but those darn wigs! I mean, does Dixon have to wear a wig when it's 120 degrees in the shade in the desert, on a camel? I think you know the answer to that question before I even ask it, Diary. He. Doesn't.

Monday
Will is getting all clingy again. He's following me around, asking me about spy stuff, and generally being a pain. But he gets those puppy dog eyes going, and I just can't stay mad at him. I mean, yes, I did save his life and all that. But what is this, some sort of Brady Bunch episode or something? I have to admit, though, Diary, it's kind of nice to have two guys fighting over me. In high school, I couldn't even get a date to the Snowball Prom. Well, wouldn't Jeff Convers from 11th grade love to date me now! (He was such. a. babe.)