Trees Produce More Than Me

Right. There are things we know, or at the very least, I know. Some are mediated, some are experienced some are just known.
For instance, I know, having never been there that the South Pole is cold. I know this because I have seen pictures and all.
I know what it is like to drive on the autobahn, because I have.
I know, having never seen the movie that “Slumdog Millionaire,” is “Aladdin” without Mork and probably with a dance routine and an offensively pretty girl. I know this, because I am not stupid.
There are things we, or again at least I, will never know.
I will never know what it was like to be in a Fraternity, play sports in college or bone a 17 year old. I will never know these things because these opportunities have passed me by.
There are other things I don’t know. I will never know why Akon sells records. I will never know the appeal to those “Twilight” books. I will never know how to freefall. I will never know these things because I just don’t get it.
It recently occurred to me that I was born about 80 years too late. Then it occurred to me that being born too late is better than too early. If I could only figure out how to manage survival, I’d be square.
The Mighty Quinn wouldn’t have tolerated this shit. Chad McGreevy would have succeeded. Yossarian just breathes. Barely.
I hope next year is better than this one. But to be truthful, it doesn’t matter.

In Thy Mercy

Right. When I go to hell, Claire Danes wouldn’t look at me if I were using the only water in hell to put her flaming flesh out. When I go to hell, sports won’t air on television. When I enter hell, I am sure I will be looked over and not receive as much torture or pain as everyone else, because I can keep my mouth shut. As I rot in hell, I will carve a small corner out and remember old books I read and smile. When I escape hell, no one will notice or care. When I exit hell, I will be met by God and his Angels and they will return me to hell for the bounty on all escapees because heaven needs new highways and they don’t believe in taxes. Heaven would rather have the money than me. That is what I am getting at.
In case anyone is keeping score, I am losing. But to be fair, I haven’t met a winner yet.
I have successfully become invisible. I am unsure if this accomplishment was accomplished on purpose or by fate or by unfortunate luck, but I am sure people can see through me. I am mostly not there anyway. Part of me is there, but most of me is caught in the ether between this realm and a billion planes of existence where my life is dramatically different. So, while invisible, people cannot walk through me yet. However, if the eyes are the physical manifestation of a representation of the soul, and everyone looks through me, then it only stands to reason that the only part of everyone that will carry on upon their inevitable deaths walk through me.
I am giving 12 to 1 odds that I never own a couch.
Mark Strong is my new favorite actor.
Actions write the words other speak. Reality is mediated by everything. Truth is needed. Unfortunately, the truth isn’t funny. Unless it is funny. Which it isn’t. Except I find it funny. I went around town today, and in five hours I saw 200 signs telling me what I cannot do.
I never wanted to wake up and be 60. But tomorrow, I will and I won’t be able to tell anyone a single thing about my life. Partly because nothing worthy of memory happened. Partly because Tennessee Whiskey kills my brain cells. But mostly because it is pointless to talk to people who can’t see you.

No. Wrong. Or Left.

Right. I used to gorge myself at this taco bell in Boston. I would eat like 40 tons of food. I puked after.
As soon as possible XTX. I promise. I am sorry.
It isn't my fault...I cheated.
This isn't good. I could recycle crap for old, and you would have ate it up and sucked from me like I was CNN. But I won't.
This will not fill. I could have bought products from TV or ate eggs or ran today. But I didn't.
This isn't what you expected. I could have done nothing. Your proprietors could have been more cautious. But we weren't.
I assume you are going to tell me that a bagel is choice and cash is duty is right. I will not argue. I don't care. i don't plan on being here that long to actually make any difference.
Dead people owe nothing.
Alive people owe only their actions.
Newborn people owe their life.
Borne people owe their soul.
Think about it.
Fuck you. It isn't a choice if I have to have it.
Fuck you. Throw a moody anytime I am not with you.
Fuck you. Throw a moody anytime I am with you.
Fuck you. I did not do that.
Fuck you. Not your problem - not my problem.
No one born homeless ends homeless. In fact, I, having not looked up any statistics, would be willing to bet that if a person is born homeless, he/she is more than likely to wind up awesome and not homeless. Mostly because homelessness is already felt.
Some people wind up homeless because of drugs. Some of booze. Some of opportunity. Others chance. I hate being regulated to chance.

NASA Can't See Shit

Right. Pray for me while you molest me. Save me while you cut me. Show me the light as you shred yourself. Cut yourself in front of me so I can watch God pour out of you. Degrade yourself so I can see the limitations pragmatic dogmatisms foster. In life, some people are born, others created and some are just here.
Jack Daniels has never lied to me. It never promised me anything. It never gave me anything I hadn’t asked for. It never, not once, raped my relatives. I’ve asked for verification. I have documentation. It is verifiable.
Life is funny. It really is. It is one giant joke.
There is this house down the street from where I live. Every time I drive by it, be it noon, nine in the A.M. or three in the A.M. it is shady. People hang out, the doors are open, packages are handed off and booze is drunk out of African-American bags on the stoop. I thought about bombing it to shit. Pissing on the ashes. But the truth is, I can’t get paid. And the betterment of the neighborhood isn’t as important as my landlady’s bank statement.
I am sure there is some sort of law against that too.
In a thousand years, no one will care. None of this will mean shit. God will evolve with our understanding of him. Science will ostracize new demographics. People will care with passion. Children will grow and scoff and forget and never learn. All of that will mean new understanding for those, but for us, we will be the butt of the joke.
My watch sits lower than it used to.
What if it is true that once in a while a little pain must be endured in order for satisfaction to be felt? What if it is true that one in a while a little silence must be heard to enjoy noise? What if it is true that once in a while you should not placate your own bullshit?
So as it stands, I am a murderer. I kill. Human life means little to me as I have no regard for it. That is fine. I can be that. I can do that. I don’t care because I have no passion. I have no insides. I have no feeling. I have nothing that you want so why can’t you stay away from me?

All You Can Eat Shrimp Dick

Right. I once tried to do things. People said jump and I jumped. People said to tread lightly, and I watched myself. People said to respect my elders and act mindful of other people and always keep in mind humanity and to be decent. I did all of these things. I do all of these things. And to be honest, I enjoy these things. And to be even more honest, being and doing all of these things has gotten me absolutely nothing.
Not that life is about what you get. No. Life is simple – you do shit and then you die. Up until I left the Army, I don’t think anyone could say I wasn’t doing shit. I did shit. I did a lot of shit. And one day, I, along with all of you, will die.
Then I left the Army.
Good times.
I don’t ask for much. I don’t feel entitled to anything. I try my best at most everything I do. Eight months. No work. Nothing. No one even seems remotely interested in letting me work. I am 31 years old. I have a Master’s degree; I was an Army Captain with combat experience. I can’t get a job waiting tables. I had jobs and internships and awards won in college and graduate school and the Army. I can’t get a job as a part time janitor at the fucking church down the street.
The church says they save those jobs for people who “need” them. I don’t know how much more I could need work.
The restaurants say they don’t see me working there very long. Wouldn’t it stand to reason that if I am applying to wait tables that I can’t find work and will be there until I do and since in 8 months I have gotten exactly zero interest mean that I will be waiting tables until I am killed in a tragic boating accident?
I know it seems hard out there. But every idiot I know makes money. Every douchebag, self serving fuck has a job.
Everyone shits. Every single person on this planet takes shits. Some just do it differently. Some people shit in the wild for their life. Most people shit on toilets. Some people shit in a hole in the floor. Some people shit on solid gold toilets.
"History did not demand Yossarian's premature demise, justice could be satisfied without it, progress did not hinge upon it, victory did not depend on it. That men would die was a matter of necessity; which men would die, though, was a matter of circumstance, and Yossarian was willing to be the victim of anything but circumstance. But that was war."

I Hate Security Cameras On Public Property

Right. Sometimes I kill children in my dreams. Before I go on, I want you to know that I deliberately chose to write that sentence that way.
I am trying something new with my hair.
Sometimes, but not often, there are leagues, or scores, or plagues, or what-have-you, of children in my dreams. I burn them. I watch them die. I take solace in knowing somehow the world is better. Sometimes I have a sword in my hand. Sometimes I have a remote. Once I had a chicken. A toy motorcycle has been there on occasion. Last night, there was a flower.
I will never do much with my life.
The children always die the same way – fire. They bathe and play in gasoline and run and chase one another and giggle. I then ignite one, and all die. I watch them, searchingly, until all are dead. Then I exhale and focus to breathe in through my nose so I smell what I have done.
I am enjoying the book I am reading.
The dawn comes in and ushers in a sense of peace; of accomplishment of the unattainable. The dawn comes and I walk through the football field size of burned youth. I am met on the other side by their parents. They all thank me, and offer praise and gifts and cry for Holy Communion.
I understand your argument; I wish you could see it my way.
I ask the mothers and fathers why they asked this of me. Why did I have to kill their children? Why was it a good thing that these children are dead? They explain over one another, that the children are not dead. I turn and look at my mass murder and see children playing over the corpses of themselves.
I need to lose weight.
I turn back to the parents and express my disbelief. A small hand then grabs what is in my hand and takes it back to the other children. The children adore it. They thank me for it. They use it and all the knowledge they glean from it to usher in their generation.
I wake up and want pancakes.

I Am Not A Flotation Device

Right. I am a terrible friend. 10 years ago you were the age I am now. I am sorry I missed it. I would have been 21. I was a shot of life.
I should write something about an elephant for you. I should play Tiger Woods on Wii with you. I should make you a sandwich and make sure the mustard is in perfect amounts on every bite. I should turn back time a couple weeks and tell you hello. I am sorry.
I am disgusting.
There was a time though.
I am suddenly the go to guy for advice. Everyone is pulling. Everyone wants. Everyone asks me for something. I give, and nothing is heard. I give and nothing is returned.
I have a thing with the FBI again in a day or so. I am not even sure I want to do it. But I do need a job. No one else seems interested in me.
I like grilled cheese.
I am going to quit drinking.
I am going to try to run again.
I can take beatings.
I saw an elephant once. He was big and grey and looked at me. He lowered his head and we held eye contact for a minute. We starred at one another. I expected a noise. I expected movement. I expected something. Instead, he just walked away. His eyes looked familiar.
People are funny. We care about things that I do not understand. We seem to like things I do not. I understand though, it is me not everyone else. I am fucked up.

I Need To Piss

Right. When the rapists of the rivers bathed in clear water, we should have paid attention. When the sons of the privileged were coveted by perceived salvation, we should have paid attention. When freedom was defined instead of theorized, we should have paid attention. When knowledge was quantified – we stopped paying attention.
I fail to see how silencing anything is freedom.
I loathe the homogenization of people.
I am constantly amazed at how I cannot understand concepts you have such a firm grasp on.
How are you? Is everything okay? I hope so. Some people get married. Some people get divorced. Some people destroy boundaries. Some people build walls. Strikes and gutters. Don’t sweat it.
What is your greatest fear? Mine is how few “decent is the highest form of patriotism” bumper stickers I have seen lately.
What is your greatest weakness? Mine is math.
What is your greatest strength? Mine is the ability to wade.
What was the last book you read? I just read a Daredevil comic that I enjoyed.
Where do you see yourself in five years? I see myself dead.
What separates you from everyone else? My ability to leave.
Some of us met in 2004. I was leaving or maybe I had left graduate school. Some of us met before, and I told you about my blog. Some of us have met in the consequent years following the inception of my blog and you have maybe left, or disregarded or grown sick or not understood.
Some of you like certain things. Some of you like everything. Some of you worry. Some of you spit praise like my ears grow wax. Some of you say nothing.
Some of me writes. Some of me wrongs. Some of me is a product of my environment. Some of me is all DNA. Some of me lusts. Some of me is satisfied.
Some of you support the old boss. Some see something different in the new boss. Some of us care. Some of us don’t. Some of us believe. Some of us have faith.
None of us know. None of us have been there. None of us are what we ought.
You will never get it.
I will never understand.

Lights Will Be Shining

Right. I forgot how much I miss being heartbroken. It is nice. It is quiet. It is how I imagine it is to live in a house after your parents died in it. Things still get done. You still do things. You function and clean and you aren’t sure how. The Gods must not realize this is starting to feel like home. It is no longer punishment, it is simply life. I will never make my way to that island. I don’t speak the language. I am not wanted there it seems.
I like ribs. I could eat ribs like 48 times a day forever.
I know this kid, he will always be okay. If I were to guess, he just may live forever.
There is this other kid. I don’t know him. But I hope he is square - as in the good way not the lame way.
There is yet another kid whom I will likely never meet, and I am fairly certain he will be dead soon.
I wish my keyboard had a .com button. That would make shit easier.
I assume someone read it and I think it is fair to assume it isn’t very good. It is God’s will.
I fell once about six years ago. Maybe longer. Maybe shorter. I couldn’t tell you. I fell and when I fell, I hit my head. So timelines are fuzzy. But the point is, is that I haven’t fallen since because I learned to walk drunk. That is a skill they should teach in school.
Space aliens freak me out.
One day I might tell someone the truth. But by then it will be a lie.

Borinquen

Right. Some things have worth. Some things are worth more than other things. Some things have no worth. Some things are free.
This isn’t new shit I am learning.
Some things are free. So you don’t really want them. Or you are stoked to find that you now have more junk. Some folks like junk. Some people collect it. Some people spend every waking second scheming new inventive ways to collect more free shit. I never figured that game out.
Take it and discard it. Bums need shit too.
Some things have no worth. Zero. Some things are just worthless. Most things have no worth. But in a bind, when anything is needed, something worthless is at least a thing. Again, these are at least something and needed, like cough drops, when needed. In fact, something worthless can be very useful and have a semi-permanent station in life. Sometimes it can even be permanent.
Get all you can out of it, because it’s free.
Some things are worth more than other things. Who knows why? I sure don’t. Gold isn’t rare, I mean we still dig that shit up, but it seems to be worth more than topaz and I think I remember someone telling me we have about found all the topaz in the world. So someone puts a nice arbitrary value on things and now everyone must live with those costs. Some people believe in this shit and work hard or lie and cheat and steal their way to attaining the higher valued shit.
Get yours. No one is stopping you.
Some things have worth. Some things are just worth more. Some things fit in a hole in your soul. Some things understand the amebic boundaries that we are and change with us. Some things are eternal in, the very least, our own eyes.
I meant every word I said to her. I meant every word I wrote about her. I meant the promise I gave only to myself about her.

7 Rules Revisited

Right. I have never trusted a cop in a raincoat. That said, I am not so sure raincoats are even fashionable to people in my generation.
I have never trusted enthusiasm or love, because each is temporary and quick to sway. That said, it seems my generation cannot discern between the two.
I was once asked if I cared about the world’s problems, I looked deeply into the questioner’s eyes – he never asked me again. That said, my generation cares more about identifying problems to make a joke of them rather than a solution.
I never give my real name, and when told to look at myself – I refuse. That said, my generation only asks for numbers and email addresses, and if I did look at myself, I wouldn’t be seeing the same man.
I have never done or said anything the person standing in front of me could not understand. That said, my generation hasn’t the attention span to watch or listen to me long enough to get it.
I have never created anything, for it will be misinterpreted. It will chain me and follow me for the rest of my life. And it will never change. That said, my generation hasn’t created anything. We remake things. And I am just as big a phony as the rest.
I am sorry Bob Dylan, Joe Strummer, Bob Marley, J.D. Salinger and Nikola Tesla. We have failed you all. We have listed without hearing. We have preached evolution and invented the copy machine. We have made you rich and bankrupted your ideas. Please, allow me to issue a formal apology on behalf of everyone born after 1975, we were simply trying to have something new.
This person, who is a fixture in my life through no desire on my part, believes me to be a murderer. She has said it. She believes it. And when I see her, it is as clear in her eyes as her cocaine pupils. Because of this, I sleep in the street a lot. I find it amusing people think the war fucked me up. I am just trying to be Barry White.
I hope I am close to finding a job. Life is better when there is something to do.
I really like whiskey.
I don’t believe in second hand smoke, gravity or evolution. I don’t have to. I don’t tell you what to believe. Leave me alone.
I have a dream of the future. It is a humble dream. It is mine, and it is safeguarded behind muscle, rib and blood. I don’t need much for this dream to come true. Some dreams come true. Maybe this one will. Maybe it won’t. I could really care less to be truthful.

I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles

Right. If I have a problem, it is just that, my fucking problem. Not yours.
The away colors appeal to me.
I smile a lot. I am learning to make the same jokes. I get the same laughs. I was telling new jokes to crickets. I guess when a farmer cleaned the crickets out of his window sill every spring; he looked forward to growing the same crops.
I am bored. Discontent. There are zero opportunities. Zero help - none taken, none given. The same as empathy.
I have strange thoughts, almost hallucinations of odd topics. Nothing violent.
I am pretty unwelcome in most places, houses, homes, bars and groups. I am the youngest looking 30 year-old I know. I am unafraid, to the point of recklessness. I am amazed.
No, I am not amazed. I am astounded. Maybe. I’m not really sure. There is a camera on ever corner. I had a 70 year-old woman tell me I was killing myself as I paid absurd money for a pack of cigarettes. There is a gate around my old high school keeping me out.
I have to laugh at it all. It is amazing. This is what we want.
I must have everything, because I get nothing.
I had a conversation with this girl once. She might have been on to something. She said something to the effect that I don’t really feel anything, I just recognize which feeling ought to be felt and fake it. She said that. I disagreed.
I had another conversation with this girl once. Well, it was more me listening to a diatribe of unimportance. She said something about how one day, I’d be sad she was leaving. She said that. I still disagree.
My mother once told me a myth that one day I’d be sorted out properly because I was decent. I only half agreed.

You Will Never Bring Me In

Right. Once, I was a boy. There was a time. I was young. I felt good. More importantly, I felt. I don’t really feel anything anymore. I don’t like things I ought to love. I can’t stand the thought of having sex. I loathe not being drunk. I wasn’t always like this.
I used to think great things were possible. I now only wish that complete ruin of every system is possible. Destruction. Ground zero. Reset.
Every government abandoned.
Every economic system and transaction obliterated.
Every God worshipped and burned.
Wreck it.
Make it bleed.
Watch it gasp.
Send it on its way.
This is my fucked up dream - to live in a world where everyone fends, wildly and primitively, for themselves.
I want it to die.
I like soccer.
I like sports.
I need a job.
I don’t even desire things. I simply recognize things must happen.

No Muse

Right. Right now things aren’t as you’re thinking. Things are different. Nothing is the same with me, with you or with them. Nothing is as it was, ought or seems. Everything is a joke or a lie.
My eyes are real because I am flesh.
I can’t say things anymore because people know of me. But what they know of me, be it from here or in the world or both - everything they know of me is a lie. Maybe they realize that, and it is because they realize it that I am a joke to them. Maybe they don’t realize it is a lie, but that then makes them the joke.
My hearing is sound because I listen.
I should have things. Certain things should be afforded to me. I earned a couple things. None of those things manifest themselves. None of those things are tangible. And none of those things exist. I have to laugh, because it is a joke. The whole thing was a joke. Jokes are best when the butt of it has no idea and I am not a very smart man.
My touch is electric because I want it.
I live so much inside my head; I have no idea if what happens is reality or my imagination. I don’t remember things. I cannot discern between what is real and what I pretended, wished, thought or dreamt. I can’t remember any faces anymore. Five seconds after I see a face, it is gone. I am always in constant surprise. I don’t even try to remember anymore. I just consider everyone a needle on a record as it plays and I don’t know the tune. I see the joke. I laugh.
My taste is delicate because I savor.
There are things I need to say. But I cannot. Because then people will know them.
I am cold.
There are places I need to go. But I cannot. These places are closed now.
I am sick.
There are people I need to meet. But I cannot. I forgot how to speak.
I am lonely.
There are ideas I need to have. But I cannot. Because my brain doesn’t work like that anymore.
I am scarred.
I keep telling jokes though. I’d rather laugh or be laughed at than the alternative.
My smell is clean because I shower.
Some people think some things about me that I will never understand. Other people say things about me I do not deserve. A few people sit with me and laugh as jokes are told and women pass. No one is willing to go emotionally and psychologically snow-blind with me.
My future isn’t what it used to be because I laugh without understanding how it’s funny.

Except For The Smell

Right. There is a place inside me I do not want to show you. There is a place inside of me I found that I can go, when needed, or when I feel necessary. This place is not good. Good things do not occur when I go there. I like good things.
This place. This is a place, we all have. I am sure of it. It is simply a matter of needing to reach it. So one day, if ever, you need to, you will have it and you will be fine. I like good things.
I like good things I swear I do. You wouldn’t know it to look at me. You wouldn’t know it to read my mind. But I do. I like good things.
Barbecues. Little league. Dance recitals. Reunions. Parties. Parades. Dance halls. Holidays. Dinner. The circus. The spa. Bars. Brothels. Testing centers.
I like good things.
There in lies the rub. Because I like them, and there was a time I loved them. Now, because of the place inside, I am unsure if I love the place or the good things more. I want this place to go away. But I want to watch the good things die in a fire so hot and raging the demons can fuck with them. This place inside, it loves me.
It loves me more than the barbecues, little league games, dances, parties and all the good things combined. It protects me. It makes me like a man I admire. It is going to get me arrested.
I went to Dresden last weekend and I hated that I missed the bombing. I stayed in an above 5-star hotel. It was an, “Elite Hotel of the World.” Wow. I got so drunk I slept in a doorway in an alley. I woke up in the morning. I stumbled to the hotel and showered in a 24 karat shower. I am rock and roll.

Miene Deutch Ist Kaput

Right. I am way too into documentaries on old rock bands. I also think things are cool I once thought sucked. I am a Jack’s sense of selling out.
I was drunk today, like in the middle of the day, and I tried to trade this Turk my jacket and my Chapstick for his girlfriend. He said, “No.” The fucking Turkish have no business sense. With the way she was looking at me, that Chapstick will stick around longer than she will.
German girls say I look like, “Elvis died.” I assume they mean “A dead Elvis.” I am not dead. I am not Elvis. I am just one guy who likes to drink beer for breakfast and booze for lunch.
My friends say I look like a junkie. I protest that statement. I just think I look a bit maniacal and bloody.
I bought records today. Like LPs. Vinyl. I don’t have a record player, but if you do and you want to listen to Bob Marley live in 1975, then call me.
Here is where I am at in my life:
Obama is President. I find that groovy. I mean, I voted for him man. However, now that he is the President, it means he is the man. And I have sworn to fight the man for all eternity. See? This is a problem.
I am leaving the Army soon. I think that is dope. I mean, I hate the Army man. However, once I am gone, I start over again. And I think I am too old to start over. I also miss Iraq. See? This is an issue.
I am already restless. I think this is scary. I mean, I want a challenge and something to do that is fun and exciting. And I don’t know what my future holds and I am afraid I will do something rash like become a Merchant Marine or some shit. See? This is an obstacle.
I keep getting harassed by the Gestapo. I can’t walk five meters without some clown asking for my papers. I didn’t know it was a crime to be me. But alas, it is. So I just fuck with them. I got punched once. I love it. I am doing nothing wrong, so nothing is going to happen to me. See? This is awesome.

Killing Bees And Wondering Where The Honey Is

Right. If I were an Angel, I would show up in a 1949 Buick when you least expect it. I would drive into your life. I would demonstrate how to do it better and leave. I am no Angel. I know this because I don't have a 1949 Buick.
I wish I could have met Martin Luther King Jr.
If I were rich, I would show up in a 1955 Porsche Speedster 3 hours after I said I'd be there. I would drive up, smile and pay for things. I would embody how not to live, yet you would see the rewards for such behavior. I am not rich. I know this because I am not rewarded.
I wish I could have met Bob Marley.
If I were important, I would show up in a black SUV in a motorcade. I would drive up when needed. I would show up and quickly solve your problem, leave no impression and leave. I would show you nothing but results. I am not important. I know this because you won't tell me your problems.
I wish I could have met JFK.
If I were who I wanted to be, I would show up in an 2009 Aston Martin. I would pull up on time and have the appropriate clothes on to compliment yours. I would say witty things and funny jokes. I would show you an enjoyable time and leave you wanting more. I am not who I want to be. I know this because you don't want anymore.
I wish I could have met Jane Austen.
If I am who I am, I would show up on something grey. I'd have no idea how it gets off the ground. I'd have no idea when it comes in. I'd have nothing to show you. I'd have nothing to do. I am not me. I know this because I have things to show you.
I wish I would meet Shakira.

Lay Me Down And Let Me Sleep

Right. People think leaving Iraq is easy. It goddamn isn’t. Firstly, you want to stay because it is home. My hatred of moving outweighs my loathing of being in the Army and being part of the Iraq war.
Secondly, the climate change sucks. I am back in goddamn Germany and I am freezing. The guys from Alaska who replaced us (complete with Governor Palin’s douche son) must have had it worse, but I am cold as shit and I miss the heat. Also, since all my belongings are in storage, my mom sent my “clothes” to wear until I am out of the Army. She sent the thinnest sweater known to man, a short sleeve soccer jersey, a pair of jeans and a pair of socks. Bless her heart.
Mostly leaving Iraq sucks because of the people. For 15 months, I lived a very Spartan life, and I loved it. Despite late at night, when things would go bad and I would get too much involved in my head, it was great. Problems come and go and at any given time, I have 700 people on a tiny piece of land I can talk to. I can help them. They can help me. We can smoke cigarettes and sunbathe. We can shuck and jive while we blow things up. We can place bets on how many outgoing rounds we will fire. We function.
You get used to the 12 – 18 hour days 7 days a week. You get used to no time to yourself, no hot water for showers, no food worth eating, no escape from the heat, Hadji, explosions, arrests, the smell, the dirt and being gone. You accept life went on without you. That people grew and changed and won’t give much of a fuck about your stories and experiences. And you know that those 700 men will always understand what we did and where we did it.
Then you leave. No more job. No more mission. No more operations. Just time. All that time you wanted, now you have and you don’t know what to do with it.
It took me 4 days to get a DUI after coming back from Iraq. I was hanging out with my bodyguard, the Squadron Sniper, and when we left the bar, a fight broke out, we won and he disappeared. I walked to a mutual friend’s house to try to find him. He wasn’t there. I walked to his room on post and he wasn’t there. Then I walked back to the friend’s house and upon seeing he wasn’t there, I decided to drive the path to town to see if he went there. I simply wanted to make sure this kid who is dangerous and on anti-psychotic medication which he hates taking didn’t go crazy. Then the goddamn Gestapo pulled me over.
I don’t know what will happen as far as punishment, but I know that it looks like the Army will keep me around just to get punished. This means I won’t be able to travel, take leave or take my terminal leave and be out of the Army soon. It looks like I won’t be able to spend Christmas anywhere except for my room again.
So now I walk everywhere.
I am living with my buddy. He is Mormon and has a wife and four small boys. His wife is assaulting me sexually. I feel like goddamn Jodi Foster in The Accused. Then she twists it all around and is kind of blackmailing me. I am sorry. I am using the present tense. I ought to have been using the past tense here as it is now over as she told her husband. So now I am homeless. He knows nothing was my fault. His wife told him the truth that she did everything despite me telling her numerous times I want nothing to do with it. He hates his wife. We run together most mornings. But I cannot sleep in his basement anymore.
In summation, I just kind of want to go home. I want to spend the holidays with my family and friends. I want to find a job. I want to leave. I want to download this Essential Bruce Springsteen CD from Itunes, except it is being modified.

By Request

Right. In a few days I leave Iraq. In a few days I will leave a chapter of my life behind. It has been a very long 15 months. I need to clear something up.
Iraq was fine. Iraq bothered me sure. Kind of like a gnat. It was an annoyance. I laughed a lot. I worked with some great people. I did some great things. I am glad I did it. That said I am looking forward to December 15th when I leave the Army for good.
I come here, when I can, and I complain. I come here to vent. I use certain mediums in my life to vent and place things in perspective. So please know that I am fine. I feel great. My mind is sharp. My smile is bright. My hands are hard. I really cannot complain.
I had a hard couple months, but that was more over some broad than it was Iraq. Iraq just added to it. See, in Iraq, you never leave your head. That is sometimes a dangerous place to be. My mind is more dangerous than Iraq ever was.
So if you came here to worry about some guy in Iraq. Sorry to have wasted your time. I never needed or asked for your worry. If that sounds harsh or unappreciative, I apologize but it is true.
I earned a few awards being here. I made some money. I blew up a lot of houses. I blew up a lot of shit.
Iraq is stupid. We have no business being here. None. It is the fleecing of America right here. I will have to answer for that in my own time. I know that to be true. I also know that I myself, saved one dog’s life, created 137 jobs, supervised the construction of one Pepsi plant, dropped so many bombs I cannot even remember them all and saved one little orphan girl’s life. I will leave her in a few days. She won’t. She has to stay.
I do not know what I will do next. I know I will go back to the soul-sucking hell known as Army garrison life. I know I fear garrison more than I fear anything in Iraq. I HATE garrison life. I know that once I leave Iraq, I will be in Kuwait for a few days. I know I have a number of days of debriefings I must attend. I know I will out-process the Army and I know that by 15 December 2008, I will just be Yossarian. Not Captain Yossarian. Not Sir. Just Yossarian.
I do not know where I will work. I don’t know whom I will bone. I don't know if anyone wants to hear these stories I have. I don't know if my car still runs. I don’t know how much I can drink. I don’t know if anyone wants to see me. I don’t know when I fly to the States. I don’t even know if I really want to live there anymore. But I do know this.
I know that no matter how old that little Iraqi girl is when she dies, she will always know that she lived because of me, the green-eyed devil.

I Am Going To Be John Wayne

Right. Despite it all. Despite my efforts. Despite my accomplishments. Despite my actions. Despite your words. Despite the praise. Despite my prayers. Despite my heart. I am insignificant, replaceable and expendable. Thank you for showing me that.
I am a heathen. I am a rebel. I fear no evil and see no good. I am dead inside. I am more free than I thought possible.
It took me 30 years to realize that I was the fucked up one. I was the one who needed to realign my perspective. I have no right to see what could be, and like you, should see what is. I have no right to expect you to stand up and fight with me, when the real war I fight is against what you are.
There was a time in my past when I tried to be nice. That effort turned into nature. Shortly after, I saw people and events differently. I no longer do, and for that I deeply thank you. You showed me reality. I am in your debt. I can never show you what could be. I hope your marriage is as empty as your soul. I hope I always remember how immaterial I am.
On the brighter side of things:
I am on month 13 in an environment which I have come to associate with normality and therefore call home. Soon, I will go on my way. I will go to Germany, out-process the Army and go back to life as you know it and hopefully, as I remember it. But nothing is as good or bad as remembered.
The sad truth is, had the Army been more challenging and dangerous, I would stay forever. I can look past being owned. I cannot look past being praised for accomplishing menial tasks. I can look past the rules and regulations. I cannot accept the hardest job in the world was this easy. The sad truth is I wish I had been pushed harder. I wish I had found my limits. I wish the hardest part of war wasn’t also the hardest part of peace.