John's Journal:

Well, Beckett, you wanted me to write more in this damn journal of mine. You never said I had to write good things about you, you fucking Nazi. I mean, yes I know that you think you're doing what's best for me, but dopping me up is a really really bad idea. Really bad... bad, um... yeah. Here are my reasons. Look how lucid this is, fucker, they're damn good ones:

10 Reasons Morphine Sucks

1. It doesn't actually help the pain. It makes it more noticeable, this sharp numbness, even worse than the pain pain.

2. Whoever said "take the edge off it" was an idiot. The edge is the best place to be. I like the edge. Living on the edge. The tip of the wave. The frontier. Wild Bill Hikok. Yeah, that's me, living large. Yehaw. Um... what was I saying? Oh, I was saying that the edge is better than the middle (not like knife-in-the-eye Wraith-bug edge, but an ow, I accidentally tripped and broke my ankle edge).

3. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. I *never* get nauseous. I can pull a ton of Gs, ride a roller coaster, get tossed about in my father's yacht in ten foot swells and not feel a thing. I don't even get the goddamn stomach flu. And I *like* it that way. I'll take a few aches and pains over an upset stomach any day. It gives me the creeps... uggg.

4. The stuff is addictive. I know that I probably won't continue to want it, cause it makes me feel sick. But anything you can get physical withdrawal symptoms from is bad. It's like cigarettes. Maybe this is the Californian in me speaking, but why the hell do you want to risk addicting yourself to something that tastes bad and will kill you? My body's done enough betraying me with... . um... other things (see previous entry concerning Dr. Rodney McKay) I don't want to give it the opportunity to do more.

5. I hate being out of control. I know, I know, with all these jarheads running around (offense intended) it's hard to think about me as being anal. I mean, I couldn't care less about having to sleep in a tent in a rainstorm on some alien world, or having to wear black shirts the rest of my life, or if my hair is all nice and neat, but I expect to be able to have a handle upon my own consciousness at least. Is that too much to ask?

6. It doesn't even get you high! I mean, maybe for some people. Not for me. But let me tell you, while I wouldn't object to the ganja, or some coke, or even a little acid, why the hell would you want to dull your senses? It makes me feel like I've got a cotton plantation developing in my frontal lobe. And that, my friend, is a bad trip. Besides, the only real way to judge the worth of a drug is whether or not it makes sex better or worse. But... that's a topic of discussion for later, when I'm actually getting some.

7. It goes in an IV. I hate IVs. And I hate shots. I know, I know, you think I'm a big wimp, right? But like I said before, I don't mind pain so much as other stuff. Like itching. Whenever you put something down that damn tube it feels like a bunch of ants are crawling around inside my fucking veins. Ants are evil. Creepy crawly, evil, bugs! Did I tell you how much I hate bugs? Well I do. I hate them a lot. They need to die. Every single one of them. And they can take the entomologists with them as far as I'm concerned. Who the hell nearly orgasms over bugs? And ever thing that Wraith-bug thing I think that Dr. Kellogg has been trying to come on to me. If you count that weird humming noise she makes at the back of her throat while staring at me and telling me I reminder her of a certain species of genus something-or-other that mates by approaching their query backwards and ignoring them or something. Oddly, Rodney seems to be pretty good friends with her. Hmmm… Maybe he is getting some, after all. Damnit.

8. It makes me sleepy. And, yes, I love sleep as much as the next guy. But when I wake up I don't feel rested. I feel like shit. Like I've just come off a bad bender and everything is too bright and the sounds are all muffled and twisted. I may not be as important and busy as some people, but I definitely have better things to do that be laid up getting unproductive rest in your infirmary. I could be leading missions, or playing football on the mainland, or helping Rodney touch things in his lab, or exploring the city, or reading, or flirting or even doing my goddamned paperwork. Teyla volunteered to help me with it, but trying to explain things like requisitions and status reports and the five bazillion codes and such needed proves to be more trouble than it's worth. What is bureaucracy... oh, god, there's a question for you.

9. You've got a limited amount. No point in wasting it on me, who hates it, when you could use it on someone who's really in pain later on. I know Rodney loves the stuff. It even makes him grin that happy loopy little grin of his when he takes it. Maybe he's one of the ones that gets buzzed from it. Hmmm... in fact, Rodney is so smiley and cooperative, though still... . what does he call it?... snarky, that I think we should give it to him all the time. Take the pain out of the pain in the ass... hmm, actually that's not what I meant. These drugs are fucking with Freudian slips... or something. I don't know. You're evil. You're doing this to me on purpose, you bastard. I hate you.

10. And... I save the best for last: It makes me say things I didn't intend to say. Like... well, 'Hey, Rodney, you're looking hot today.' Or, 'yes, I would like to fuck you.' Only I didn't meant 'fuck.' I meant 'make love to.' But he grinned just the same, before you came to shoo him out. And I think he hates me now. He's going to keep teasing and teasing me about this and it's going you hurt and it's all your fault, you asshole. Did I mention that I hate you? And I hate morphine! And I hate feeling this way! And I think I'm going to throw up.

Rodney's Journal:

Hey Carson. I still think this journal thing is a waste of my oh-so-precious time, but I'll humor you. It's not as though I'm going to say all these things out loud and it's only slightly less efficient than talking to myself, so here I go.

Did I ever tell you how much I love morphine? Probably did when I was high on it and watching all the Muons go flying around the infirmary. I know muons don't really look like fuzzy doughnut shaped purple rings with smiles and googly-eyes, but that's what comes to mind.

John says he doesn't like it. It's probably some stupid macho thing. The idiot. I hate seeing him in pain. He can at least do the rest of us a favor and take the stuff.

Anyhow. I'm organized and efficient. I'm a scientist, after all, so I'm going to do this in list format, simplify it for minds that cannot keep up with the speed and complexity that is my thought process.

10 Reasons why Morphine is the Gift of God (who doesn't actually exist, though that fact is immaterial to this specific proof)

1. Even you can get this one, Carson. I'll use small words you Voodoo scientists can understand. Pain = bad. Morphine stops pain. Therefore Morphine = Good. Good is the absence of bad in this case, if you're a bit behind the class.

2. I like singing Muons. I know, I'm weird okay.

3. And I like the way John smiles at me when I'm happy and don't give a damn that I'm showing him how much jut being around him makes me smile.

4. And it was because he was on morphine just now that John told me that I was hot. And when I asked, he told me he wanted to fuck me. And... while, I'd much rather make love, fucking Major Sheppard would make me even happier than morphine ever could. Of course, you had to shoo me out of there before I could kiss those beautiful lips of his. I'm mad at you. I want you to know that. But I guess I can forgive some things because if you hadn't doped him up, I doubt he ever would have told me. That stupid... arrogant... insufferable... smug... charming... sexy man. Oh god, you better release him soon, before he convinces himself its all a hallucination and that he doesn't want my cock pressed... uh... can our journals be NC-17. Actually, you know what? Never mind. I don't want to give you any ideas. He's mine. Got it? I don't care if you've got all the good drugs.

5. Er... The thing is, I don't really have ten reasons. Oh, fuck the whole ten reasons thing. Insisting on ten is politician's thing not a scientist's. I'm a genius I can prove my point without ten reasons. I think reason number for is certainly reason enough and it's distracting me from coming up with more logical thoughts. Do we have any whipped cream? Oh, not that you would know. Note to self: as the guys at the mess if we've got any whipped cream. And chocolate sauce. Yeah. Oh and... Well, you'd know about lube, wouldn't you?

Well that's enough of this journal business. I have plenty of things to keep me busy while I'm waiting for you to release John from the infirmary. Preparations must be made!