(pause)
"I miss that crazy bastard."
Stephen from Earth:
Sunday, November 30, 2008
View: Full | Compact * My Notes * Notes About Me * Drafts My Iraq Address 08-09 Share Friday, December 12, 2008 at 9:35am | Edit Note |
Jeanie from Florida: "...oh yeah, my grand father in law was in the Army, he was in Korea. He said when he first got there he was like 'these are the ugliest bitches I've ever seen' but after being there for a few months he said 'oh these bitches are gorgeous, I'd fuck every last one of them, you should look out because one day some Korean bitch will come up to you and say "hey I'm your sister" because I fucked so many of them, which wouldn't make any sense because he isn't my dad..."
(pause)
"I miss that crazy bastard."
Stephen from Earth:
(pause)
"I miss that crazy bastard."
Stephen from Earth:
Friday, October 24, 2008
Why I write
I've never written during the comfortable periods of my life. I've never really done anything during those times. I’ve continually skated along at minimum output just to get by. But there is something strangely compelling about that which pushes us, about the trials that we face. They force us to re-evaluate our principles and re-examine just what it is to be awake and alive and learning. This is what brings out something useful in me.
My writing is therapy as is my music. I’m not particularly gifted at either. I am fully aware that I may well be destined to never do anything spectacular in this life but I’m also aware that my idea of spectacular is likely selfish and convoluted and that the true meaning of being a good person lies not in the deeds that set us apart but in those that bring us closer together.
I’m leaving again soon to do what I get paid to do. It’s not really as special as all the parades and articles make it out to be. We are just normal people; we have normal shortcomings and prejudices. We fight and love and fail just like everyone but we do it in uniform and the camera turns our way because a part of being human is the hope that we can find something better in our neighbor which will in turn make us better. I hope to find something better in that person too.
My writing is therapy as is my music. I’m not particularly gifted at either. I am fully aware that I may well be destined to never do anything spectacular in this life but I’m also aware that my idea of spectacular is likely selfish and convoluted and that the true meaning of being a good person lies not in the deeds that set us apart but in those that bring us closer together.
I’m leaving again soon to do what I get paid to do. It’s not really as special as all the parades and articles make it out to be. We are just normal people; we have normal shortcomings and prejudices. We fight and love and fail just like everyone but we do it in uniform and the camera turns our way because a part of being human is the hope that we can find something better in our neighbor which will in turn make us better. I hope to find something better in that person too.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Blisters for your Birthday
Everyone tells me I should write a book about being in the Army and what it's like to go to war but there's a part of me that feels that most of those stories have been told. Every story has been told, really. So if I were to do it, I'd have to make the most compelling and thrilling book ever written about the War in Iraq. I'd have to lie. But before that I'd have to start from the beginning, right? I'd need to write about basic training and how strange military customs are and why I thought it would be a good idea to join the Ranger Regiment (damn you Blackhawk Down). And I'd have to give it a catchy name worthy of the New York Times Bestseller list.
I've come up with a few different potential names for this potential book and my most recent and current favorite is "Blisters for Your Birthday" not only because it's a pleasing phonic phrase but because it simply sums up how the Army takes everything that could be fun and ruins it. Shouldn't shooting things and jumping out of airplanes and living in what amounts to a giant frat house be fun? Shouldn't I have not had to ruck march at 6:30 in the morning on my 26th birthday? It's not all bad truthfully. But soldiers love to bitch.
I've come up with a few different potential names for this potential book and my most recent and current favorite is "Blisters for Your Birthday" not only because it's a pleasing phonic phrase but because it simply sums up how the Army takes everything that could be fun and ruins it. Shouldn't shooting things and jumping out of airplanes and living in what amounts to a giant frat house be fun? Shouldn't I have not had to ruck march at 6:30 in the morning on my 26th birthday? It's not all bad truthfully. But soldiers love to bitch.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
You're a Two Time Volunteer, Son
This is always the worst part. Crammed on a tiny seat of red nylon cargo netting next to sixty other paratroopers, unable to find a comfortable way to sit that at the same time relieves the weight of the rucksack from your waist and your chute from your back. The C-130 sways and bucks in a meticulously orchestrated pattern for educing maximum levels of nausea while mechanical pings and pangs keep ever mindful that this Mac truck with wings is easily older than you are. The men around you are bathed in the cool blue light but it doesn’t help to make the mood less anxious. The knots in your stomach strongly suggest you that you should have maybe just had two of those gut-truck burgers and not three, still somehow you find a thin, fitful sleep. In your mind you recount the steps you’re going to take as you exit the aircraft, watching your body as it falls into space, imagining everything that could go wrong, the malfunctions, the broken bones, and then you remind yourself that statistically speaking, tonight you’ve got a pretty good chance of not becoming a statistic.
A short while later you open your eyes as the Jumpmaster opens the door revealing the darkness beyond. The droning roar of the four propellers slicing through the chill night air makes it impossible to communicate below shouting level. You don’t feel much like talking anyway. 1200 feet below, lights from street lamps blur in the prop-wash giving adding another layer of doubt to this already surreal situation. You signed up to do this, you actually volunteered twice! And you remember that your original orders were to Ft. Carson, Colorado. You think about snowboarding and you kick yourself… or you would if you could move your legs. 130-knot winds slide along just feet from you as you stand and check your static line that will open your chute as you exit. Again you’re painfully aware of the 150 lbs of equipment attached to you, but the adrenaline helps takes the edge off. The ritual equipment check ends with each paratrooper yelling “Ok!” letting the guy in front of him know he’s good to go. There’s also the slap on the ass… you choose the shoulder. The red light by the door flicks to green and the first man takes two steps and disappears. One-one thousand, the Jumpmaster yells “go” and you hand your line off and step into space.
Twisting and turning violently in freefall your chin tucked to your chest, hands gripping the sides of your reserve chute on your waist; you forget to count to four. It seems like you’ll know if it doesn’t feel right even if you don’t count. But it does feel right, you slow down and the world comes back into sharp focus giving you your first chance to look up to see the beauty of a fully deployed canopy catching the soft blue-gray glow of the full moon. Let’s see, chute open, check, risers untwisted, check, nuts intact, check, so far a good jump. Usually you’d expect to see other jumpers falling close around you but on this night you’re gloriously alone and enjoying one of the most thrilling experiences in life.
Gela drop zone isn’t as long as Sicily, which is the largest in North America (a subject that somehow renders a hearty and ubiquitous pride among those in Division, but really is it any surprise that it’s here at Ft. Bragg, the home of airborne and special operations?) ((EDIT) - As Cpt. Hesterman said, Gela and Sicily are actually the same drop zone, just flown in different directions, I wasn't aware of this.) More importantly Gela consists of mostly soft damp sand that is impact friendly when the winds are low. They say not to look at the ground because you’ll land sooner than you think in the dark but they say lots of stupid shit so you look and realize your about 200 feet up, release your ruck-sack and weapon so they go sliding down a 50 foot line that you hopefully won’t land on. You keep looking and see that you’re drifting to your right and backwards so you pull your front left riser to slow down but like always you do it too soon and switch direction of travel at the last second, slam into the ground with a knee grinding thud, the air rushes out of your lungs with a surprised and pathetic “huuuh” and roll over onto your back and look up at the stars. You laugh.
…
This is pretty much how a Mass Tactical night jump happens. It’s not glamorous but it’s pretty cool to look back on once you’re safe and in one piece on the ground. What was even better about it was a cherry (a new paratrooper) scampered up to me as I was putting on my night vision and getting my weapon ready and offered to carry my chute off the drop zone because he didn’t have anything to carry. The guys with no jumps in Division jump Hollywood style with no equipment because they aren’t trusted to do it safely, though I don’t see how my one jump makes me that much more qualified.
Later that night as the squadron marched 12 miles back home I rode in the field ambulance behind the pre-ranger training group and ended up treated a sprained ankle and a cold weather injury that could have been fatal with we hadn’t gotten to him when we did. The weather that night wasn’t that cold by Bragg standards, maybe in the high 40’s low 50’s but it had been raining off and on since we’d been on the drop zone and the guys we picked up were soaked to the bone. At one point he stopped shivering which I took as a good sign at first until I realized it was more likely that he was going into mind hypothermia even with the space blanket I’d put over him. We rushed him to the ER and he was released the next morning. I didn’t get to sleep until about 8 am. Then had to be up at 9:30 for a briefing. I slept the rest of the day.
---
This next part was actually from the beginning of November when we had just returned home.
It’s amazing how fast the money goes when you get home. Well maybe not that amazing considering how I’ve never been too good at living within my means. But I think I deserve a LCD flat-screen TV and a Play Station 3 and a Bose speaker system for my computer. I almost bought another guitar too, but six is probably enough. They are all in California though. I’ll figure something out.
So I sit here now in the calm of the mid morning in my own room. Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds are proving that you don’t have to be able to speak coherently to play beautiful music. It’s warm in my room and it smells like apples and pears because of this bottle of dish soap that we bought that has an air freshener built into the base. Apparently while I was gone, everything had to get an air freshener built into it. I have my own shower, a little electronic stove top that I’ve already cooked Lil’ Smokey sausages on… so delicious. Each night I fall asleep watching the BBC series “Planet Earth” that I bought on high definition Blu-Ray DVD. Mexican Cave Glow Worms catching flies with long strings of mucus and silk and eating them alive can be so beautiful when viewed with the correct technology.
---
It’s not all a fairy-tale life though. Sometimes I have to actually leave my room and go into Fayetteville and interact with the unwashed masses. Wal-Mart is a particular joy. Of course by joy I mean it’s an anxiety ridden freak fest starring the most bovine undergrowth allowed to call them selves human. Before I even enter the Wal’s gaping maw I’m harassed by an African American gentleman wanting to know if A) I’m in the military and B) if I need a ride back to base. Normally I’d trust any stranger with missing teeth and a lazy eye with my life, hell just look at my day job, but when he asked if I was military my creep-o meter spiked into the red.
In towns like Fayetteville posing a question like this is actually a thinly veiled euphemism for, “how would you like me to fuck you today?” Depending on the chosen profession of the one making the proposition, this is not always an unwelcome request but as far as transportation goes it’s a potential death sentence. Also, why was he asking me if I needed a ride as I entered the store instead of focusing on the patrons on their way out? As my friend smoked a cigarette, I learned that this cabby had recently gone into business for himself because he didn’t want to pay Yellow Cab $300 a week to be contracted by them. He pointed out which cab was his and as I turned to look at the mid 90’s era primer black Crown Vic wedged awkwardly into a nearby parking spot I could see how $300 would have been a stretch.
Initial survey and decision quickly completed I look my leave, shopped for the essentials I came for and waiting in line for forty minutes which I hear is fairly standard. Back at the barracks enjoy my personal space. I’m glad that music still comes to me. There was a time when I felt like that part of me was withering up, a cracked leaf skeleton in the autumn forest of my dreams, but like everything, it comes and goes as it pleases. Perhaps then, even when life gives you questionable methods of transportation, it’s best to just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.
A short while later you open your eyes as the Jumpmaster opens the door revealing the darkness beyond. The droning roar of the four propellers slicing through the chill night air makes it impossible to communicate below shouting level. You don’t feel much like talking anyway. 1200 feet below, lights from street lamps blur in the prop-wash giving adding another layer of doubt to this already surreal situation. You signed up to do this, you actually volunteered twice! And you remember that your original orders were to Ft. Carson, Colorado. You think about snowboarding and you kick yourself… or you would if you could move your legs. 130-knot winds slide along just feet from you as you stand and check your static line that will open your chute as you exit. Again you’re painfully aware of the 150 lbs of equipment attached to you, but the adrenaline helps takes the edge off. The ritual equipment check ends with each paratrooper yelling “Ok!” letting the guy in front of him know he’s good to go. There’s also the slap on the ass… you choose the shoulder. The red light by the door flicks to green and the first man takes two steps and disappears. One-one thousand, the Jumpmaster yells “go” and you hand your line off and step into space.
Twisting and turning violently in freefall your chin tucked to your chest, hands gripping the sides of your reserve chute on your waist; you forget to count to four. It seems like you’ll know if it doesn’t feel right even if you don’t count. But it does feel right, you slow down and the world comes back into sharp focus giving you your first chance to look up to see the beauty of a fully deployed canopy catching the soft blue-gray glow of the full moon. Let’s see, chute open, check, risers untwisted, check, nuts intact, check, so far a good jump. Usually you’d expect to see other jumpers falling close around you but on this night you’re gloriously alone and enjoying one of the most thrilling experiences in life.
Gela drop zone isn’t as long as Sicily, which is the largest in North America (a subject that somehow renders a hearty and ubiquitous pride among those in Division, but really is it any surprise that it’s here at Ft. Bragg, the home of airborne and special operations?) ((EDIT) - As Cpt. Hesterman said, Gela and Sicily are actually the same drop zone, just flown in different directions, I wasn't aware of this.) More importantly Gela consists of mostly soft damp sand that is impact friendly when the winds are low. They say not to look at the ground because you’ll land sooner than you think in the dark but they say lots of stupid shit so you look and realize your about 200 feet up, release your ruck-sack and weapon so they go sliding down a 50 foot line that you hopefully won’t land on. You keep looking and see that you’re drifting to your right and backwards so you pull your front left riser to slow down but like always you do it too soon and switch direction of travel at the last second, slam into the ground with a knee grinding thud, the air rushes out of your lungs with a surprised and pathetic “huuuh” and roll over onto your back and look up at the stars. You laugh.
…
This is pretty much how a Mass Tactical night jump happens. It’s not glamorous but it’s pretty cool to look back on once you’re safe and in one piece on the ground. What was even better about it was a cherry (a new paratrooper) scampered up to me as I was putting on my night vision and getting my weapon ready and offered to carry my chute off the drop zone because he didn’t have anything to carry. The guys with no jumps in Division jump Hollywood style with no equipment because they aren’t trusted to do it safely, though I don’t see how my one jump makes me that much more qualified.
Later that night as the squadron marched 12 miles back home I rode in the field ambulance behind the pre-ranger training group and ended up treated a sprained ankle and a cold weather injury that could have been fatal with we hadn’t gotten to him when we did. The weather that night wasn’t that cold by Bragg standards, maybe in the high 40’s low 50’s but it had been raining off and on since we’d been on the drop zone and the guys we picked up were soaked to the bone. At one point he stopped shivering which I took as a good sign at first until I realized it was more likely that he was going into mind hypothermia even with the space blanket I’d put over him. We rushed him to the ER and he was released the next morning. I didn’t get to sleep until about 8 am. Then had to be up at 9:30 for a briefing. I slept the rest of the day.
---
This next part was actually from the beginning of November when we had just returned home.
It’s amazing how fast the money goes when you get home. Well maybe not that amazing considering how I’ve never been too good at living within my means. But I think I deserve a LCD flat-screen TV and a Play Station 3 and a Bose speaker system for my computer. I almost bought another guitar too, but six is probably enough. They are all in California though. I’ll figure something out.
So I sit here now in the calm of the mid morning in my own room. Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds are proving that you don’t have to be able to speak coherently to play beautiful music. It’s warm in my room and it smells like apples and pears because of this bottle of dish soap that we bought that has an air freshener built into the base. Apparently while I was gone, everything had to get an air freshener built into it. I have my own shower, a little electronic stove top that I’ve already cooked Lil’ Smokey sausages on… so delicious. Each night I fall asleep watching the BBC series “Planet Earth” that I bought on high definition Blu-Ray DVD. Mexican Cave Glow Worms catching flies with long strings of mucus and silk and eating them alive can be so beautiful when viewed with the correct technology.
---
It’s not all a fairy-tale life though. Sometimes I have to actually leave my room and go into Fayetteville and interact with the unwashed masses. Wal-Mart is a particular joy. Of course by joy I mean it’s an anxiety ridden freak fest starring the most bovine undergrowth allowed to call them selves human. Before I even enter the Wal’s gaping maw I’m harassed by an African American gentleman wanting to know if A) I’m in the military and B) if I need a ride back to base. Normally I’d trust any stranger with missing teeth and a lazy eye with my life, hell just look at my day job, but when he asked if I was military my creep-o meter spiked into the red.
In towns like Fayetteville posing a question like this is actually a thinly veiled euphemism for, “how would you like me to fuck you today?” Depending on the chosen profession of the one making the proposition, this is not always an unwelcome request but as far as transportation goes it’s a potential death sentence. Also, why was he asking me if I needed a ride as I entered the store instead of focusing on the patrons on their way out? As my friend smoked a cigarette, I learned that this cabby had recently gone into business for himself because he didn’t want to pay Yellow Cab $300 a week to be contracted by them. He pointed out which cab was his and as I turned to look at the mid 90’s era primer black Crown Vic wedged awkwardly into a nearby parking spot I could see how $300 would have been a stretch.
Initial survey and decision quickly completed I look my leave, shopped for the essentials I came for and waiting in line for forty minutes which I hear is fairly standard. Back at the barracks enjoy my personal space. I’m glad that music still comes to me. There was a time when I felt like that part of me was withering up, a cracked leaf skeleton in the autumn forest of my dreams, but like everything, it comes and goes as it pleases. Perhaps then, even when life gives you questionable methods of transportation, it’s best to just sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
A Tale of Soap and Coming Home
I didn’t know it was a game at first. The first time I played was probably back at the dorms at the University of Arizona. Just participated out of laziness and opportunity. It took two years of honing my skills to realize the their full potential but now I’m quite certain I’m a pro. The game, soap swap, the premise, be retarded enough to forget your body wash in the communal showers in a densely populated area long enough to where you know it will be missing if you go back to look for it, then find a new bottle of forgotten soap before your next shower so you never actually run out and you never buy a new bottle. The rules are simple. You can’t use bar soap, because that’s fucking gross, who knows what part of what body it’s touched. Also you can’t take a bottle that belongs to a person you know is still in the bathroom. That would just be mean, and it would increase the rate of half-naked fistfights that are already too frequent an occurrence.
That’s pretty much it. It’s not really stealing because it’s just accepted that if you forget your body wash in the shower it’s going to become part of the game. It’s really the same as anything that is left unattended in community housing, if you don’t love it enough to keep a constant eye on it, it was never really yours to begin with. So far this has been the fate of my pair of $130 Smith sunglasses and countless unmarked tan undershirts. Why do people take other peoples intimate clothing? Who knows, but I remember that even the issue tighty-tanny panties weren’t beyond the realm of possible targets in basic. They say the Army hates a thief but they certainly don’t mind employing them. I’ve learned a multitude of handy less than legal tricks from my fellow soldiers over the last year and a half. You’d be surprised how easy it is to steal a car and probably less surprised at how easy it is to get caught. Every time an aspiring thief falls short of his goals, a new private is born.
--
Kuwait blows. The end.
--
I’ll never fly again with out the aid of modern medicine. As we taxied to take off from Kuwait heading for our half-way point in Frankfurt, Germany I took a couple muscle relaxers and passed out before the wheels left the tarmac. I awoke to a small dish of strangely delicious meat chunks with rice and veggies in front of me and ate mindlessly until my plate was clean and promptly passed out before the stewardess took my tray. I woke up again to the sudden jarring of our plane touching ground and passed our two-hour lay over eating a bratwurst and chatting with my friends about how much we enjoyed walking outside and actually feeling cold.
As we were getting seated again I took an Ambien and racked out before we were in the air. Somewhere over the Atlantic I woke up and ate a cheeseburger and the next thing I remember we were 45 minutes out of Newark, New Jersey. I can’t think of a better way to spend almost an entire day inside a plane. I was rested, relaxed, and in generally good spirits even while sitting waiting for hundreds of soldiers to get off the plane before me. As we disembarked for our second and last layover we were told to under no circumstances take our weapons off the plane. After the seven layers of Customs that we went through just to get on the damn thing we were all pretty happy to just leave our shit on the plane so we could go shave and brush our teeth. Being one of the last ones off I ended up getting left to brush my pearlies using the water fountain. Apparently some soldiers found this taboo, the same men who spent weeks wearing the same clothes out at the patrol bases. Go figure.
From New Jersey to North Carolina I tried to sleep some more but I guess my body’s limit is somewhere around 18 hours so I watched an episode of House and fiddled with my beret picking little pieces of white fuzz of and trying to smooth out the wrinkles. Outside my little window we floated above lush juicy white clouds. It was like standing upside down and looking at Heaven below you. Every so often a break in the clover would reveal green fields and trees, well-maintained roads, and a tiny shiny cars moving all the busy people to and fro. It was like peering through the shifting mist of the wishing glass, six months in a place like Iraq can make even the most mundane American countryside seem unimaginable.
I got butterflies as we landed at Pope AFB and taxied around to an ecstatic crowd of waiting family and friends. No one was there to see me in particular but just being around all that happiness finds a way to get to you. Fathers seeing their baby for the first time, lovers reunited, mothers getting to hold their son that they’ve worried about endlessly over the last year, it seemed like all way right again in the little world of Stephen. People I’ve never met before hugged me like I was kin. Women cried on my shoulder. I was thanked countless times for my service and I found it was impossible to erase the smile I’d had since we were released from formation. And now I’m home. Hopefully my stories from here on will ones of joy and music, more chances to get all I’ve yet to do accomplished.
That’s pretty much it. It’s not really stealing because it’s just accepted that if you forget your body wash in the shower it’s going to become part of the game. It’s really the same as anything that is left unattended in community housing, if you don’t love it enough to keep a constant eye on it, it was never really yours to begin with. So far this has been the fate of my pair of $130 Smith sunglasses and countless unmarked tan undershirts. Why do people take other peoples intimate clothing? Who knows, but I remember that even the issue tighty-tanny panties weren’t beyond the realm of possible targets in basic. They say the Army hates a thief but they certainly don’t mind employing them. I’ve learned a multitude of handy less than legal tricks from my fellow soldiers over the last year and a half. You’d be surprised how easy it is to steal a car and probably less surprised at how easy it is to get caught. Every time an aspiring thief falls short of his goals, a new private is born.
--
Kuwait blows. The end.
--
I’ll never fly again with out the aid of modern medicine. As we taxied to take off from Kuwait heading for our half-way point in Frankfurt, Germany I took a couple muscle relaxers and passed out before the wheels left the tarmac. I awoke to a small dish of strangely delicious meat chunks with rice and veggies in front of me and ate mindlessly until my plate was clean and promptly passed out before the stewardess took my tray. I woke up again to the sudden jarring of our plane touching ground and passed our two-hour lay over eating a bratwurst and chatting with my friends about how much we enjoyed walking outside and actually feeling cold.
As we were getting seated again I took an Ambien and racked out before we were in the air. Somewhere over the Atlantic I woke up and ate a cheeseburger and the next thing I remember we were 45 minutes out of Newark, New Jersey. I can’t think of a better way to spend almost an entire day inside a plane. I was rested, relaxed, and in generally good spirits even while sitting waiting for hundreds of soldiers to get off the plane before me. As we disembarked for our second and last layover we were told to under no circumstances take our weapons off the plane. After the seven layers of Customs that we went through just to get on the damn thing we were all pretty happy to just leave our shit on the plane so we could go shave and brush our teeth. Being one of the last ones off I ended up getting left to brush my pearlies using the water fountain. Apparently some soldiers found this taboo, the same men who spent weeks wearing the same clothes out at the patrol bases. Go figure.
From New Jersey to North Carolina I tried to sleep some more but I guess my body’s limit is somewhere around 18 hours so I watched an episode of House and fiddled with my beret picking little pieces of white fuzz of and trying to smooth out the wrinkles. Outside my little window we floated above lush juicy white clouds. It was like standing upside down and looking at Heaven below you. Every so often a break in the clover would reveal green fields and trees, well-maintained roads, and a tiny shiny cars moving all the busy people to and fro. It was like peering through the shifting mist of the wishing glass, six months in a place like Iraq can make even the most mundane American countryside seem unimaginable.
I got butterflies as we landed at Pope AFB and taxied around to an ecstatic crowd of waiting family and friends. No one was there to see me in particular but just being around all that happiness finds a way to get to you. Fathers seeing their baby for the first time, lovers reunited, mothers getting to hold their son that they’ve worried about endlessly over the last year, it seemed like all way right again in the little world of Stephen. People I’ve never met before hugged me like I was kin. Women cried on my shoulder. I was thanked countless times for my service and I found it was impossible to erase the smile I’d had since we were released from formation. And now I’m home. Hopefully my stories from here on will ones of joy and music, more chances to get all I’ve yet to do accomplished.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Know what would be awesome sause?
....If I could sleep. But I can't so I updated my profile, messeged a few peoples and checked my gmail about 7 times to see if anyone had written me, but no one had.
...If people I write would write me back. I mean I know I'm not the center of the Universe, my mother told me so, but isn't is just common courtesy to return correspondence? Even if it's just a quick IOU-a-real-letter letter, that would be better than nothing. It just kind of makes me feel not so loved.
It's 4:22 in the morning and I'm still in Iraq. It still is sandy outside. I would enjoy a hug and one day where no one around me is a sarcastic burnt out soldier just counting the days until they go home. That would be awesome sause.
...If people I write would write me back. I mean I know I'm not the center of the Universe, my mother told me so, but isn't is just common courtesy to return correspondence? Even if it's just a quick IOU-a-real-letter letter, that would be better than nothing. It just kind of makes me feel not so loved.
It's 4:22 in the morning and I'm still in Iraq. It still is sandy outside. I would enjoy a hug and one day where no one around me is a sarcastic burnt out soldier just counting the days until they go home. That would be awesome sause.
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