Day 1: The human scum seem blissfully unaware of my presence here, as intended. They're ripe for bombing, and it should only be a matter of time before I've charted out their position.
Day 2: Charting complete - a trivial task for such an accomplished fellow as myself. Why I got stuck with this job is beyond me - they should have J-Y C. do it. That ridiculous accent should have been justification enough.
Day 3: First breath of air is finally getting a bit stale. Perhaps I should surface momentarily for another in a few days. Still bored to tears - where is that blasted signal?
< The ranting continues ... >
Day 12: Ah, sweet relief. The second breath tasted like the purest orphan tears I've ever had. The signal remains puzzlingly absent, and I could swear that one of the crabs is attempting to play drums on my big toe.
< The rants grow more disassociated ... >
Day 36: Third breath of air finally expired, and the veins in my left elbow filled with bubbles again on the way up. The drumming of the crabs is a constant companion now, a percussive backdrop to my blackened little corner of hell. Clearly, I've been forgotten by those wretches. If J-Y were down here, they wouldn't have forgotten him! They wouldn't have left Hans or Sylvia behind! Why me?
< The entries trail off in a despondent scrawl ... >