29 Aug 2011
The weird thing in all of this is having nothing really important to say, nothing to write home about, and still finding myself picking up the pen. Something about the act of writing home makes you all feel closer. An entire month has flown by but I am still barely one third of the way through....and I am slowly getting homesick. I read and reread the letters I’ve received, soaking up every drop of life that I can, and still I am thirsty for some good old Oregon rain.
This new life is a huge change, and is constantly reminding me of just how many freedoms and opportunities I had & squandered on the outside. Heck, the sheer volume of crap I get done before eight A.M. these days outweighs my weekly output from before I shipped. Tracking?
My point is, stop wasting time. I know so many of you have dreams that are scratching at the back corners of your hearts. But if you leave them sitting there, they’re going to collect dust and disappear like...crap that vanishes. Yeah. Get ON that stuff and make it happen, then list me in the credits as your inspiration and send me royalty checks. Seriously.
On a more serious note, why haven’t you sent me pictures yet? I swear, I am in danger of forgetting what you look like. Which is not only bad, it is slightly disconcerting. I may be getting old & rugged, but not THAT old & rugged.
I am not sure what that meant, but it is 115 degrees out here and I have to use the Little Boy’s Room BAD but the only facilities we have are giant, putrid, stinking holes in the ground with no amenities for hygiene, so I’m hot’n’bothered and trying not to think about it.
Later, on the bus home:
It hit 120 degrees. I’m hot, headed home for a heat dump listening to Elton John & Michael Jackson on the radio. Epic Military Win.
Rock & Mischief
Tristan
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