Dear diary,

Today, I got in trouble for calling a tantrum-throwing shipmate a "punk".

This dick was fighting with me because I was using "his desk". I tried to explain to him that "his desk" was the only one with a scanner, which is vital for both of our jobs. Since I have already been helping him with "his project" (which is a nice, albeit sarcastic, way of saying doing all of his fucking work for him), I figured that I would help him even more by doing the scanner, since my workload is massive enough to require me to use the scanner constantly. In my head, it's simple: I'm utilizing equipment appropriately, streamlining a process, getting shit done quickly and professionally. In his head, he's still pissed that I'm sitting at "his desk".

It's weird having two arguments simultaneously. It's like shouting through water. I'm trying to explain it on a professional level, and he's threatening to kick my ass. I'm obviously confused. This isn't grade school. He's ready to jump off at me. This isn't grade school.

""if I wasn't in this uniform, you'd see," he says to me, "Come down come Saturday. Just you and me, in the woods. You'll see."

The last time somebody uttered that phrase, they were waving a gun at me because I asked their mother for directions.

Still in my face, he asks, "Do you think I'm a punk?"

From my side, up until he said this, this was the progress of my argument: I need the scanner; I can help you handle your load; okay, I'm sorry I'm swearing, it's a shitty crutch I use to get over my stuttering; hey, I stopped swearing; hey; hey; now hold on; hey; hey; no I don't want to fight, it won't solve anything; what the fuck?

So when he asks me if I think he's a punk, after he's been trying to start a fight, I say, "Yes, you're fucking acting like a fucking punk. Now just fucking punch me in the fucking face so I can go back to my fucking work. Please. Just do it."

Of course he doesn't, so I take it to the chief hoping it will end things.

Oh no. No it didn't.

My co-worker not only argued with the chief, but continued to threaten to kick my ass. He got in a shouting match with a superior NCO. Things were finally getting resolved, this guy was about to get the punishment he has deserved for so long, until the little shit said it.

"But chief, he called me a punk."

Look, this guy, he's been in Fallujah. Fucking Fallujah. And he's getting up in arms over a desk? Over me calling him a punk? Damn it.

So shit switches over, and I'm getting reamed for calling him a punk. The chief pulls up the definition on his computer, yells at me, etc etc. He threatened to send me to a disciplinary review board (not a fun time), mast, whatever, but finally settled on a counseling chit. Cool, I'm fine with that. Let's just go back to work. Let's get shit accomplished.

That's when my chief asks the big one. "If he had asked you if you thought he was a n*****, would you have said it? Are you racist, petty officer?"

Wait, this is a race thing? God damn it.

This is my life.