So ... I've had a TERRIBLE past two weeks. First, I had swine flu, which my brother was kind enough to bring home from Idaho. There was one night where I was sure I was going to die.
Then, I got over the flu, but for some reason my suppressed memories about Iraq started demanding some attention. All last week I felt like I wanted to kill someone ... or curl up in the fetal position ... I'm not sure which.
Don't worry, I'm feeling better now. But I would like to take a moment to honor the heroes (and I mean hero in the classic sense, for those of you who may see something wrong with calling killers heroes,) my friends, who never made it home alive.
There are roughly 60 Marines whom I knew personally that came home in boxes, some of whom were very close friends of mine, one of whom was probably the closest thing to a real father I ever had.
First up, my Senior Drill Instructor, Staff Sergeant Walker. For 13 weeks this man tormented my every moment, waking and sleeping. He kicked dirt in my face, ran me into the ground, physically abused me, and humiliated me day in and out for the duration of boot camp. And for that, I thanked him, just like he predicted I would. The man was about the closest thing to a father I've ever really had. Our platoon was the last platoon he ran through boot camp, after which he went back into the infantry and was deployed to Iraq, where he was shot in the head and killed. Staff Sergeant Walker, you are missed. He was from Long Beach, CA and let me tell you, he was well qualified to represent the L.B.C. ... for him, I listen to Sublime. Did I mention he looked like a combination of Mario and Mickey Mouse?
Then there was Lance Corporal Watts ... a black country boy from Texas. This asshole was one of only two people to beat my rifle range score in boot camp. He was also the person who gave me my first dip. I puked, and never did it again. He signed up a 0000 ... that is to say, for whatever the hell the corps needed him for. Normally, 0000's get put into the infantry ... but not Watts, he was made administration ... a pencil pusher. K.I.A. Iraq, 2004. Watts, I'ma smoke a Black'n'mild for you.
Then there's that asshole tyrant, First Sergeant Barnhill ... this fucker made us all field day every day for over a week straight while we were in country. But he wasn't all bad, and he went out in a rather atrocious way ... anyways, we listened to a lot of Iron Maiden at his memorial. First Sergeant Barnhill, I wish I could have taken your place. Here's one you never got to hear:
There are many more I could name, but I don't think I have the heart to ...
When life fucks you, fuck it back.
... and this one, this one's for me ... because I'm never really gonna come back from that place.
Then, I got over the flu, but for some reason my suppressed memories about Iraq started demanding some attention. All last week I felt like I wanted to kill someone ... or curl up in the fetal position ... I'm not sure which.
Don't worry, I'm feeling better now. But I would like to take a moment to honor the heroes (and I mean hero in the classic sense, for those of you who may see something wrong with calling killers heroes,) my friends, who never made it home alive.
There are roughly 60 Marines whom I knew personally that came home in boxes, some of whom were very close friends of mine, one of whom was probably the closest thing to a real father I ever had.
First up, my Senior Drill Instructor, Staff Sergeant Walker. For 13 weeks this man tormented my every moment, waking and sleeping. He kicked dirt in my face, ran me into the ground, physically abused me, and humiliated me day in and out for the duration of boot camp. And for that, I thanked him, just like he predicted I would. The man was about the closest thing to a father I've ever really had. Our platoon was the last platoon he ran through boot camp, after which he went back into the infantry and was deployed to Iraq, where he was shot in the head and killed. Staff Sergeant Walker, you are missed. He was from Long Beach, CA and let me tell you, he was well qualified to represent the L.B.C. ... for him, I listen to Sublime. Did I mention he looked like a combination of Mario and Mickey Mouse?
Then there was Lance Corporal Watts ... a black country boy from Texas. This asshole was one of only two people to beat my rifle range score in boot camp. He was also the person who gave me my first dip. I puked, and never did it again. He signed up a 0000 ... that is to say, for whatever the hell the corps needed him for. Normally, 0000's get put into the infantry ... but not Watts, he was made administration ... a pencil pusher. K.I.A. Iraq, 2004. Watts, I'ma smoke a Black'n'mild for you.
Then there's that asshole tyrant, First Sergeant Barnhill ... this fucker made us all field day every day for over a week straight while we were in country. But he wasn't all bad, and he went out in a rather atrocious way ... anyways, we listened to a lot of Iron Maiden at his memorial. First Sergeant Barnhill, I wish I could have taken your place. Here's one you never got to hear:
There are many more I could name, but I don't think I have the heart to ...
When life fucks you, fuck it back.
... and this one, this one's for me ... because I'm never really gonna come back from that place.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
kraven:
What? You were that sick? Aweeeeeeeeeeeeeee I send you soup!!!!
ava_jade:
close...it was actually the fool's mother 