May 9th

I threw out the copy of Black Mesa, White Lies on my dresser. I keep looking at it and feeling something I can barely describe. When did it stop being funny and start feeling like a cry for help?

Dr. Braun says I’m spending too much time in my office. He invited me out to lunch, which I accepted. As much as I hate to admit it, he is right. My mind is eating at itself, and with the prototype almost finished, I’m running out of distractions. It was a nice outing, but his small-talk is a little much for me. When he asked what was keeping me so shut-in, I made up some excuse about getting too into my work. I’m a terrible liar, but I think he bought it. Braun has been working here a lot longer than me, so I suppose he’d believe just about anything. I feel bad about lying; I can’t shake the feeling that he would’ve understood. Too late now, in any case.

The biological labs are apparently done being sanitized. To be honest, I’m a little disappointed. I was just starting to enjoy having them around. Younger and nicer faces are a delight when you’re forty and working in an office with a high concentration of crotchety fifty and sixty year olds. Dr. Peters even visited to say goodbye and shake my hand. He said he’d send Perl my regards. I thanked him without losing composure. Small victories.

Heading to bed early tonight. I’m going to deeply immerse myself in work tomorrow and try to push to the end.

Signed,
Dale R.