A little post-"Scientific Method" vignette. I hated the episode and that Janeway,
but I can't pretend I didn't recognize her.

CRAZY
by YCD

Captain's log, stardate...the hell with the stardate. It's been two weeks. I've
had this headache for two weeks. I haven't slept in days, I can't eat. Can't
concentrate on anything I'm supposed to be doing. There's a binary pulsar out
there we're supposed to be investigating, but when I look at the brightness on
the viewscreen, my eyes burn. Let Chakotay worry about the damn thing, I just
want a rest.

Everyone on my crew is annoying me. Tuvok can't seem to keep the most basic of
ship's protocols functioning. Neelix, with those nauseating concoctions of his,
alternates between being cloyingly involved and AWOL when we really need
something done. Even little miss know-it-all Seven of Nine, who thinks she can
fix everything with her Borg wonder-brain... The Doc's just about the only member
of the crew I don't feel like taking a swing at, but I have to stay away from
him, or he'll just threaten me with another of his massages.

Massages. Hah. There's one member of this crew I know can give backrubs the way
I like. Of course, I can't even think about it.

Damn him.

Damn Tom and B'Elanna, too. All over the console in the middle of Engineering,
like wild weasels. Proving every historical argument about why shipboard
fraternization is a mistake. Does Tom think none of us have noticed how he takes
every excuse to sneak off duty and visit her? They're probably screwing around in
the Jeffries tubes, and the science labs, and the shuttles. Spoiled brats. I give
them a break and this is how they turn out. A walking hormone and a Klingon
nympho.

I should establish a rule about senior officers not dating other senior officers.
That would kill a lot of problems.

I tried to get onto the holodeck for awhile today, to do some sculpting, unwind a
little. But Carey had time reserved and Ayala after him. All by themselves.
Probably to mess around with artificial blondes in bikinis. Hey, your wife and
kids aren't around, so why not? Where's the harm? Sex is all anyone thinks about
around here. My dedicated crew. Leaving their bodily fluids all over my ship. It
makes me sick.

Everything smells noxious to me. The kitchen. The labs. Even coffee gives me a
migraine. It's as if the entire ship's conspiring to drive me crazy. If it
weren't so ridiculous, I'd suspect that evil aliens were messing with my mind.

If I see Mark in a turbolift, I'll never stop screaming.

I thought about telling Tuvok how I'm feeling, but he probably thinks I'm this
way all the time. Emotional. Just on the verge of losing control. Same with the
Doc--he's not human, he won't understand the difference. Probably he'll tell me
to go relax on the holodeck, just like last time. I can't talk to my horny
Klingon engineer, I can't talk to the Borg queen. I can't talk to the person I
really want to talk to because we might end up not just talking. "You know what I
think you really need, Kathryn?" And then put his hands on me, innocently, like
he just wants to rub my shoulders.

Oh god. Think about something else. You've got a headache, remember?

Yes, I do. How can I forget? It's almost constant now, an ache behind my eyes,
throbbing in my temples. I'm angry at everything. I'm angry at myself. Why didn't
I just use the goddamn array to go home? I wouldn't be stuck out here with these
juvenile delinquents and a barely competent crew and *him*. I'd never even have
met him. I'd be at home with Mark, or without Mark, with my dog. Nice and
comfortable.

Computer, delete last line. This isn't me talking.

The last time I really felt like *me*, though, was a long time ago. The day I
almost died, the day I saw my father. It's been one disaster after another since
then. The Borg, losing Kes, almost losing half a dozen other people. Maybe the
stress is just beginning to get to me.

I could use a vacation on a nice planet somewhere. A real planet, not a holodeck.
With a river to explore, and maybe some animals. Do some gardening, take some
hikes, long baths under the stars. With company, I think.

I'd better stop thinking.

This job is driving me crazy.