The I'm going to Oh, Uh, hi, this is the thing, the diary thing.

Um, This is the thing, the diary thing, January 17th, 1944.

It's Monday and it's damn cold.

no heat in my house.

I've asked to put in a work order, but it seems like every GI is off on other assignments.

It always seems like there's a swarm of them buzzing about,

but never when you actually need them.

I scrounged up a couple of blankets from the infirmary,

but I can only wrap myself so thickly and still work. My first few months here have been decidedly

miserable. Sure, when I first got here I was welcomed with open arms, but ever since the second week or so, I could feel myself getting frozen

out. Pun definitely not intended. I mean, I have never seen a more hostile group of people in my life. Not a one of them will speak to me unless under a direct order.

My lab assistants spend a single day with me, speak in the tersest of tones, and then refuse to come in the next day.

The room full of men and women that are so far removed from any concept I have of a computer I barely understand, glare at me.

Just stare me down until I run from the room.

Even civilians stop conversing when I enter a room.

And it's not like there's no social life here. There is. The other people they throw dinner parties they drink they dance and I don't I'm left out in the cold the puns still not intended. I swear it's like high school all over again at

first I thought that they were under orders not to speak to me it would have been a

little cruel trapped living as a pariah in a secret desert town of geniuses, but I mean, I'm

from the future, I guess I can understand that. You know, for the sake of avoiding paradoxes,

sure, keep me isolated. For the sake of avoiding paradoxes, sure, keep me isolated, for the integrity of the universe and so on.

But a few weeks ago, I just kind of snapped.

I couldn't stand it anymore. So I stormed into the director's office.

...