In the early throes of nicoteine withdrawal, I abandon my quest to inventory every last goddawful piece of clothing and equipment issued to me.
Inventory and account for. And clean. Spotless. Everything. Things I haven't touched in two years. Not to use, mind you, not to turn them in. Not to do anything with except to stuff em into a dark crevice and forget about em again. Let them collect dust.
My list is three pages long. Fuck my life.
Humidity, like being inside the mouth of a whale. Got a fan going at all hours of the day, to keep the stagnant air and barracks stink moving. Can't let it seep into your bones. Can't sit still for too long, can't afford to ruminate, grow angry and mouthy. Must stay preoccupied. Preoccupied and invisible. Maybe giving up vice isn't the best means of doing this.
I think about going to the gym after work. But I won't go. Can't be bothered to join the new culture of GNC supplement-gobbling weightlifting Mixed Martial Arts enthusiasts. Too many of them.
Waiting for a couple weeks before the attempt at online courses begins. Vocabulary class, and another to remain untold for now. Anything to stay busy, stay distracted, to keep my sorry ass out of trouble.
On occasion, I can feel the hounds closing in, sniffing, patrolling. Gnarled teeth dripping with acidic saliva. Fire of hell burning in their eyes. Pretty sure they're sniffing out the short-timers. Some days you can smell the stink on us from the other side of the parking lot. The shitty attitudes, I mean. God help you if the wrong higher-up catches you running your mouth. Guess that's why I'm hiding in my barracks room, scribbling incoHeresy into a diary, like that little Jewish girl, Helen Keller. If any of you know the secret to invisibility, let me know.
Just caught a glimpse of something vomit-inducing on FauxNews. The soap opera "All My Dipshit Children" is having an open casting call for Iraq vets, to play the role of a wounded soldier. Fucking leeches.