Its More Of An Itching Than A Burning

The roof the roof the roof is on fire
We don't need no water let the motherfucker burn
Burn motherfucker burn

No longer bound by the chains that hold me on restriction to the battalion area, my freedom is mocked by our deployment status. Slept like a death row short timer last night, with no particular help from the Black Hawks flying overhead. Read some old posts, contemplated how bad my writing sucks, and was glad. Eventually passed out sometime around 1 AM or so. When my alarm went off at 5:30, it took an act of God to pry my eyes open. Pinkeye can't hold eyes shut this well. We formed up according to the teams we're assigned in, me being in good ol' Team 8, and by that, I mean Ladder 8.

The chow hall was the usual oddyssey of mediocrity. If elementary school cafeterias can get it half right, why can't the army? Because that wouldn't suck enough. Soldiers can't live like rock stars, it ruins the discipline we fake when needed. Want proof? A guy in my mortar section inherited five million bucks, and is now on his way to getting out of the army. Change of lifestyle. Honorable discharge. The rich can't fight wars. Fuck you, I'm a millionaire. Good for him, yeah, but the concept is assbackwards. Funny thing how the dudes who seem like their family could really use/deserve money like that...never get it. I'm not jealous actually: the only way I want to get out of the army is an ETS (estimated time of seperation, or some other string of words that fits the acrononym and more or less suggests fulfilment of contract). I want to do my time and take a bow, exit stage right. There's my four, Uncle Sam, don't ever call me again. Give me my cabin in the woods or some equally cliche romantic ending. I'll be Obi Wan Kenobi living in the hills, hunting the freaks from The Hills Have Eyes. That's an excellent retirement plan.

As for now, I'm waiting. Go figure. Early call, wait. Hahaha. In another hour and a half (an hour has already passed since morning formation), my team goes to do SRP (soldier readiness program, or some shit, which is the deployment preparation, probably at or near Waller Hall) where we'll stand like cattle in a slaughter house, moving single file, mooing and bleating, chewing our cud, minds already numbed to the experience, docile and stupid, as we go from station to station to see all the paperwork on us that's been fucked up.

Oh, and the hell with sleep, I think I'm going to my buddy's place tonight. Got to meet these air force girls. And to assure my dear mother, I won't use the "pickup line" I mentioned the other day.

"Excuse me, miss. Does this smell like chloroform to you?"

No wonder they're sending a little sinner like me to the flames. I love the poetic justice. Consider it purgatory.