24 hours of duty, get off, get some rest, don’t even get the chance to read, and before you know it you’ve done all the fucking work they assigned for your day off, and it’s ten at night, and your mind is wrecked, and you understand alcoholism like never before. Too much Army shit will kill any good person. Why? Because half of it doesn’t even make sense. Like why we’re doing this right now, where we’re supposed to have gotten half this shit, and how we’re supposed to function as soldiers if all our gear is packed away two months ahead of time. Retardation, not to mention the fact that the goddamn fucking POGs who wrote this packing list were clearly high on crack, making shit up: fleece bottom, ex-fucking-cuse me? Show me one, please, dear POG. What’s worse is that we never use this wet weather/cold weather gear. Like ever. I’m about to lose my mind, but writing this post gave me some serious release, and perhaps a little mixed drink will ease me into sleep tonight. Now I want to hear some Smiths and finish squaring my room away. A never-ending process. Maybe someday I’ll get good at this shit; it’s hard for me to imagine that there are more ate-up motherfuckers than myself. That’s crazy: they’re really not trying. Just keep reminding myself that I’m in this for the money, and that keeps me going, because I had so little when I joined, and was unhappy as a result of that. Now I’m unhappy for other reasons. Someday I’ll find a lover and a place to hide and things will be alright.
Over.
