August 15, 1973, Wednesday

I woke up with seventeen warts on my hands this morning. They looked sick and ugly. When I went to sleep last night they were not there. This morning they were. I was marched to the infirmary. They used liquid nitrogen to burn them off. I asked if we can do half now half later, on account that it fucking hurt. They said you’re in the brig you don’t get to make that choice. They treated all of them at once. It still hurts. The fucking SOBs. Later.