Phở Porn - My Undying Love for Noodles

DISCLAIMER:
Parental discretion advised. The following is not suited for noodle haters, vegetarians, the faint of hear. Vivid descriptions of phở and its effects will follow. Also photographs depicting phở may be included.
I will claim full responsibility if you take offense. Will I give two phở-cks? Hell no. Go away if you don't like it. Wuss.


So as most of you know, I have a few weaknesses and couple of vices I enjoy indulging.
They include and are not limited to:
Drinking
Over-sleeping
Hookah once in every fiftieth blue moon
Laughing by far too much
Being cynical
Food

And on the last bit... Noodle soup. Not just any soup, mind you. But phở.
Broth of the gods!
Well. Maybe not, but it is damn tasty.

For those of you not in the know, phở is a Vietnamese street food that is comprised of broth, rice noodles, meat and a few optional garnishes. You can usually find me adding in bean sprouts, Thai basil, a squeeze of lime and a LOT of Sriracha.(AKA 'Rooster Sauce', 'Cock Sauce') Enough to turn my broth from that beautiful brown to a painful orange hue. But the burn is so good.I love this stuff so much, I own a shirt declaring it.
It's tasty.
It's usually inexpensive. (Around the same price you pay for some sack nasty from the Golden Arches. I get a regular size bowl, and I can barely finish it)
It's quick.
It's my comfort food, on this weird level.

I can tell you about my very first time.
I doubt I can ever forget that.

STANDBY FOR STORY TIIIIIIIIIME.

It was mid-June. I had just graduated high school. Eighteen and full of dreams, but also plagued by unnecessary relationship problems. I was on a hiking camping trip with a couple of friends/co-workers. Needless to say, I left the trip early for some really stupid reasons, and for a while lost one of my best friends for it.
In two and a half days, I managed to hike a total of nearly 27 miles. Being carless, I managed to snag a ride down the mountain from the trailhead by a couple of amazingly awesome ladies, one of whom owns a local wine shop back home. Hmmph. I need to stop by the next time I go home and talk for a while.
Despite my very disheveled appearance and crazy-ass story (I'm lucky they didn't think I was an ax murder), they took me down to one of the local towns. Skykomish. That was as far as they could take me, seeing as they were one a little weekend retreat to a cabin the wine shop owner owned. Needless to say, they let me use a cell phone (Didn't have one for three and a half years. It was nice).

I called the only person I could think of that would drive an hour and a half to fetch my sorry ass, and not flip out.
My brother, the Paratrooper.
The one who has pulled me out of more than a few fires. It would be a lie to say I don't owe him my life.
It was the summer just after he had left the Army.
Since that day, I've had his phone number memorized. I'm just lucky he hasn't changed it. Haha.
So while I'm waiting for him to come retrieve me, I help my rescuers out with building their outdoor firepit. I still feel it was inadequate payment for their kindness.
My brother arrives, we throw my pack and gear into the van, we all chat for a little while and then we depart.
The ride home was such a relief. We talked. Then he figured I was hungry. He took my out for my very first bowl of phở.
It was one of those beautiful Washington summer afternoons. Far from being hot, but sunny, everything green.
We walk into this tiny restaurant, just a few miles from home. Phở Dat. My favorite noodle joint to date. Blistered feet, hiking boots, dirt stained jeans and a comfortable t-shirt.
We sit down. The place is cheerful and cozy. Oddly raised designs and paintings of rice paddies adorn the yellow walls. I remember anytime off my feet at that point was nice.
You could smell the broth simmering back in the kitchen. One of the very welcome smells.
God, I was hungry.
The owner comes by and asks us for our order. Two Cokes, two large bowls of phở with eye round and flank steak.
A few minutes pass, he drops off a plate of garnishes and two cream puffs. I still don't know what I'm getting into at the point. My brother reassures me that it'll be good, and to save the cream puffs for the end. I trust him, so I follow his lead and break apart my bamboo chopsticks and wait.
Not more than ten minutes from the time we order, the own comes back with two steaming bowls of the most beautiful sight ever.
Paperthin cuts of beef, cooking in front of your eyes in that magical brown broth. My brother adds in his bean sprouts, basil and lime wedge. He gives it a healthy spurt of sriracha. I follow suit.
Words cannot describe my first taste of this.

 Words still cannot do justice for my love of that bowl of pure happiness.

One of the first places I ate when I came home from boot camp was that little noodle place. It's a pilgrimage I think I'll make everytime I journey home.
As common as phở joints are back home in Washington, not everywhere is blessed to have one.
I learned this the hard way in Missouri.
That was a dark, dark time for me and diverse foods. Because there were none. Maybe that's why I took up barbequing more frequently. And drinking.
The only place I could get a bowl of phở was Saint Louis. Which is not particularly close, and a $130 one-way cab ride. Or before they took it away, by rental car. I do have an amusing story about that, for another time though.
Let me tell you. That phở was alright, but far from being perfect. That restaurant didn't revolve around it. I can't blame them, I don't imagine anywhere in Missouri is keen on Vietnamese noodle soup.

Since then, I've crawled out of the dark ages. Went to my current duty station. I'm back in civilization, and despite the horrific traffic, all is good.
I also have a little phở place I happen to frequent whenever I have a ride or a car to drive myself.
Or a willing convert.
I've already dragged several Marines to go broaden their tastes. And I'm pleased to report they've enjoyed it. They have even gone to seek it out on their own volition.

Admittedly, I have a tendency to binge eat. I will eat it 2-4 times in a week, and then it'll be a few weeks of absolutely nothing before I manage to go back.
I wish it would be more regular.

And now...

 

Obligatory photo. The last time I had gotten any, Saigon 75.

Also note Thai iced coffee in the background.

God... I've got the shakes again. I need to go back soon.

Understanding My Dad

Maybe not understanding him completely, but I feel like this past year I’ve grown to understand him a lot better than I ever did when living at home. And that’s saying something.
This sort of has occurred to me before, but I never really thought to write about it. Well, here I am.
 
Let me give you a little bit of background into my family before I go off explaining my oh-so-profound revelations. First of all, we don’t call him “Dad”, he’s Pop to us. Always has been, always will be. When I was a little brat ages ago, he was Papa or Poppy. Second of all, out of all my siblings’ lives, he was around for most of mine growing up. He had retired from the Army in about ’96, 22 years of active service as a tank crewman; a 19K by Army MOS designation I think, or a 1812 to translate to Marine terms. I was just about to turn six when he got out. Most of my brothers’ lives had been spent with him deployed or in the field.

My Mom raised us pretty much alone, my oldest brother (who is sixteen years older than myself) helped out. We all did our part, actually. We were a well-oiled German engineered machine while Pop was gone, as Mom would joke around.

”Zhere vill be order und discipline!”
That was a poor attempt at communicating my mother’s accent. And her odd sense of humor. If any of you have met her, you’d have laughed a little at that. You also would then promptly remind me how much you love my crazy little German mother. Well, I love her too. Very much so.

Sometimes I wonder how much she has rubbed off on me. Probably a lot more than I’ve realized.

 
Anyway! Back to the topic at hand.
Pop.
He’s fairly rough around the edges, cantankerous, grouchy, sarcastic and always has to be in charge. He is also a man of routine. Part of that comes with old age, I’m sure. (And I suddenly have realized that sounds a lot like me. Auuugh.) He might be retired from the Army, but he works for the Navy as civilian DoD police. We call them ‘Blueberries’ out here, due to their dark blue/black uniform. And also because a good number of them are a little… Shapely.

I’m certain without my Mom, he’d be less civilized. She also might instigate part of that cantankerous old man-age. But isn’t that what married couples do after… Uhhh… I think it’s somewhere close to 35 years of marriage? Regardless. It’s a high number that I don’t think I’ll see for myself. BUT I DIGRESS. That’s a story for another day.

 
After twenty-two years of being in the Army, or any branch for that matter, you develop a mindset that life is supposed to run a certain way. You have habits and routines because much of your day revolves around a regimented schedule. I see that now. I knew that before but at the same time, I didn’t really know. You catch my drift? Well. My very little time spent in the Marine Corps has shown me this. And I can understand why small, stupid stuff would piss Pop off. Why he expects things to be done a particular way.

Pop joined the Army thinking it’d be a single enlistment stint; he joined because a high school buddy joined. This buddy of his thought he’d go career. He ended up getting out after his first enlistment. Two decades and some change later, my dad is a First Sergeant. His retirement only pays him as a Sergeant First Class (our equivalent to a Gunny), simply because he didn’t have enough time in grade as an E8 before he left. Go figure.

I get up everyday I work, and do more or less the same thing. I deal with the stupid bullshit we all have to deal with; Putting up with fools and whores, assholes and some ridiculously silly rule because someone ruined it for the rest of us. I do my job, I do it in a very particular way, and it’s the same. Day in, day out.
I see the crap we deal with on all levels. What my NCOs and SNCOs deal with, what my peers deal with.
I can see how by living like this for twenty-some years, you get set in your ways.
 
I never anticipated that one of the things I’d gain, quite inadvertently, from joining the Marine Corps would be the ability to relate better to my dad. (Also to my brothers)
Don’t tell him, but I’m really happy I can now.
Through high school and college, we butted heads more than a few times. Such differing opinions on life, politics, uhhh… Boyfriends, what I should do with my life, etc. Those typical teenage/young adult things that happen to make life a little more turbulent than necessary.  

 

Anyway, I should wrap this up. The hour is late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. Back home it’d only be midnight. Nights really have me jacked up.

 

Pop, sometime early '90s?

Christmas 2011

Yes, we wrapped it in a copy of the latest Army Times.
He looks so serious, but he was happy with it. His face is just....

Naturally that way. Haha. :) 

Shadow box was a joint gift from all the kids.

My idea, and we liked it. My dad did too.

Hand put together by the family paratrooper and myself.

 

We also got him shot glasses. One representing each of us. He was confused when he pulled out the one with the seal of the Marine Corps on it. That's how I broke the news I'd be going to Parris Island the following month, and not to Ft. Jackson for the Army. He was a little crushed. He thought his little girl was going to go put on the same Army green he had. Little did I know at the time, I'd see him tearing up on Family Day a few months later. Apparently, he brags to anyone who listens that his little pigtailed girl is a jarhead. Love you Pops. :)

 

Barracks Cooking: The Grand Taco Experiment

Good evening Marines!
Errr... Hmm...More aptly, good evening people who know me who might happen to be some combination of Marines, civilians and internet lurkers!
My name is Lance Corporal Wood and my next period of instruction is on cooking in the barracks using what you have available to you! Tonight, is tacos (and maybe an egg scramble)! There will be no powerpoint aided lecture, but simply my blog with a few pictures for instructional purposes. You can choose to stop reading anytime you wish, however, I will remind you this may be beneficial for you sometime in the future!
By the end of my period of instruction, I am more than confident that you will be able cook and possible enjoy eating something other than chow hall food!

For those of you not in the know, living in the barracks is kind of like living in college dorms. There are certain things you can and cannot have. On the cannot have list, it's everything ranging from hot plates to those George Foreman grills. Basically anything that isn't a microwave, you can't have. It kind of sucks. And why don't I just break that rule and have one of those items? Well you see, if a health and comfort inspection ever occurred and I had one of those contraband items in my possession... There'd be a lot of trouble for me. So this is why I've decided I need to improvise.

First of all, you'll be needing a few things. Chances are, you don't typically have ground beef in your mini-fridge. Or any sort of ground animal. Well, fear not! You have a commissary somewhere near you. Go pick some up. Along with flour tortillas, refried beans, seasoning, cheese and whatever else you typically enjoy on your tacos. Also, if you're of-age, I highly recommend picking up a six pack from the Seven Day (a type of minimart for those of you who are confused). Right now I've been enjoying Sam Adam's winter variety pack.

Moving on!
I happen to have a 2 quart glass baking dish that I used for this, but if you have a bowl large enough that's microwave safe, that should work.

1. Place ground meat into the microwavable container.Place in microwave, heat on high for three minutes. Remove, it should start looking like it's cooking at the point. Open your package of seasoning, sprinkle on meat to taste (i.e. if you like it super salty, add more seasoning, if you just want the flavor, add less. You're a grown ass man or woman, I'm assuming, you figure out what you like)
Mix together, breaking up clumps of cooked meat in the process.
Return to microwave for another 3-4 minutes, watching carefully to make sure it doesn't overcook/burn/etc.
2. Open your can of refried beans. I had to improvise since I don't have a can opener. My Leatherman multitool was quite handy. Though I was sure I was going to cut off a finger or something.
Place refried beans in a microwavable bowl. Stand the fuck by!
3. At this point, your meat should be done. Just be sure to check it for it. Kinda should be springy, not mushy. If not, microwave for a minute each time until done.
Set aside when done.
4. Pop the beans in the microwave! Heat for two minutes, stir, heat for another two or until hot. Be sure to stir again before serving.
5. Prep everything else. Get out joor tortillas, cheese, and other fixings.

At this point, it's a little obvious that you're done. So go put together your damn tacos and enjoy them.
Don't forget that beer, either.

Next time? Tilapia and some sort of vegetable.

Barracks Cooking

Chow hall food.
Ugh.
I have nothing good to say about the food they serve in the chow hall next to my barracks. Breakfast isn't so bad, too bad I miss out on it when I'm working.
Don't you dare make the arguement, "But at least it's free."
So is grass. And dirt. And birdshit. But do you see me eating those? Hmmmmm? And let me tell you, there are some days that I think that foraging for food would be infinitely more tasty than eating that food, if you can loosely call it that.

And with the barracks? No, we don't have kitchens. We're limited to just a microwave and small refrigerator. (And once again, fuck the Army. The MPs I've known both in Ft. Leonard Wood and Ft. Myer have real kitchens. With stoves and shit. God, I should've become a nasty hooah.)
My mother, bless that crazy little German lady, would have some choice words for me and a very long lecture about the evils of using a microwave. But honestly? You use what you have, you adapt and overcome, right? *snorts*
Well, I've decided my next grand experiment will be cooking in the barracks. Using the microwave.
And I'm not talking about instant soup, frozen boxed dinners or Ramen. I'm talking about cooking things like...
Tacos.
Chicken and potatoes/rice.
Pork roast and asparagus.

Stuff like that.
Yeah, probably a crazy ass pipe dream, but we'll see.  That last bit sounds a little... ambitious. But I'll make it work, so help me God!
And you know what? I'll keep you updated on the progress of this experiment. My success and failures! (Especially the failures. Because those will most likely be humorous in the worst ways possible.) And if you hear about a Marine burning down the barracks because of an exploded microwave? Well. That'll be me.

Slightly Intoxicated Rant

You know, this is the first time in a while I've decided I want to be drinking alone. And yes, before you decide you want to lecture me about how unhealthy that is... I know.
I really do. 
But you have to understand, this evening started off after field day (to hell with that shit, I felt like a recruit again because I had to bust out my scuz brush) when I went to dinner with a few friends. Two of them were from the school house, the third being the new guy.
I realized how much I loathe the whole, "My dick is bigger than yours" conversation that most males discuss. It's stupid. Really.
At dinner, I decided to have a couple of beers. Why not. I was on a three day, I might as well take advantage of my night off. I've been good. Really. 
From there I just decide that I want to perpetuate this lack of sobriety. 
And so here I am. A bottle of wine, Blink 182 playing, a comfy bed and my blog. Odd combination. But I guess that just defines me.
Here's to hoping I stay sober enough to throw away the garbage in the morning before morning room inspection.

Anyway.
Moving on. This is supposed to be a rant. I can't promise it'll make much sense.

Since I'm drinking, let's play a game. Ring of Fire? Sure. That was, perhaps, my favorite drinking game. Ever.
Jack? 
Never have I ever, huh?
Well, let's see here.
Never have I ever had a more-than-platonic relationship with someone that first started off with a strong basis in friendship. Anyone I was ever really serious and involved with... Well, I kind of jumped into those. They never had a foundation of prior friendship.
Never have I ever... Not drunk texted someone and then regret it the next day.
Never have I ever... Not been a jealous, selfish person.
Never have I ever... Regretted admitting to having feelings for someone.
Never have I ever... Really enjoyed running. Fuck that noise.


Ahhhhh.
So many explanations needed! 
Will I give them all? Probably not. 

To say the least...
I think that part of the reason I've been so... Disgusted? Reluctant? Well, whatever it is... I think it's because I finally want a relationship or something along those lines that is based off of an amazing friendship. I haven't had that. I've only been hurt by those. So it's a nice change of pace that I'm not being held to that. But at the same time, it sucks due entirely to the fact that multiple people from Geiger, can shoot.  (Okay, just realized what I was typing. I'm leaving that in there as proof of my lack of sobriety.)
I think the point I was trying to make was that I'm happy that I've concluded that I deserve to be in a relationship that has a strong foundation. After all, how can you build a castle on ever-shifting sand?
What that has to do with shooting in Camp Geiger? I have no idea.

But I do know that I moving on from my last relationship, and I'm proud of myself for that. No matter how dark the world seems at any given time, it can either always be worse or if it has hit supposed rock bottom, it can only get better.

And I'm doing better.
And I'm happy about that.
It's about damn time, quite frankly. Life is too short to dwell on much.

Though admittedly, I think I've put myself into a position in which I can never really be happy in the end. That point in which you think you have feelings for someone who will never reciprocate them. At least, not in the sense that you wish... No, wish is not the right idea. Hope. Because I could never wish anything against their own will.
That's horrible. Hope is a little bit better than that.
But I've concluded, I'll just carry the fuck on like I always have. I'll still be your best friend, and I will never put those "other" ideas ahead of that. Beyond everything else, I value our friendship. I will always be there as I always have been before. I will never censor myself because I feel like they'd strain our friendship. I will always have your back, as I always have. I will never regret confiding in you, even my most hopeless secrets.
I will remain loyal; I will remain steadfast, honest and true.
As I always have.
I'll still tell you exactly what I think, even if it might hurt.
Nothing between you and I has changed, other than what I very drunkenly admitted to you.You know I'm not sorry for that. I don't think I will ever be. I just hope that it doesn't change anything for you.
I just want you to be blunt with me. Much like you always have been.
Bright, beautiful, belligerent, blunt. Me... but a much better version of me. Does that make me a slight narcissist? Probably.

But you know what...?
As my Senior would say when it never really mattered....

Whooooooooooo caaaaaaaaaares?

And now I'm out of wine.
Good night Chesty Puller, wherever you are!

Embracing the Suck

It’s one of my brothers’ birthday today. He’s a whole 28 years old now. He’s the one who I look up to and admire the most. He’s the paratrooper. Or more aptly was; he’s out now and in pursuit of becoming a pharmacist. Honestly, I have more respect for ‘troopers than for the average Hooah.  Maybe because they take more pride in what they do, where they’ve been, and are pretty damn crazy. Like Marines, but a little less… extreme. Then again, anyone who decides it’s a good idea to jump out of a perfectly good C-130 has to be a little crazy.
He served his time, did his civic duty, and he’s spent more than enough time in the ‘Stan.

I joined the Marine Corps with the intent to eventually deploy. I wasn’t under the illusion that I wouldn’t.

Sometime in October I had gone to MEPS for the second to last time. I swore in. I was slated to go to the Island and stand on the yellow footprints sometime the following January.
Five year contract as a 5811 – Military police officer. I got my wish.

 Now? Now what? Am I ever going to go to Afghanistan? Probably not.

Definitely not this enlistment, due to my current assignment.
The war isn’t over, but we’re leaving the country regardless.
My brother confessed to me that he’s happy I won’t have to deal with that stress. The constant threat of rocket and mortar attacks. The stench that is the mud and people of the place. That I won’t have to worry like he did.

I joined to serve.

And I am, in whatever capacity the Corps dictates that I do. I know a lot of people, the ones who aren’t here, that look at the job I have and are in awe.
You might scoff at me wanting to go be boots on the ground. But don’t. You joined for the same reason, and now you regret it? Did they not teach you to embrace the suck? It seems they haven’t.
You volunteered for this deployment. No one forced you. Your entire unit didn’t get orders to go.
So don’t go hating on those of us who would much rather be OCONUS than sitting here stateside.
Don’t tell me, “You say that until you’re here.” When I tell you I’d trade you in a heartbeat.
Because you don’t know me. I don’t think you ever did, really.
This is what we’re trained for. We joined during a period of armed conflict. What else did you expect? Cupcakes and tea time?
Maybe you did. Maybe you only wanted the hero worship that I saw when I went home with you on leave. Your reasons for joining to provide a better life for your daughter, is admirable.

We all go through hell, but we keep our hopes up because there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel. Everything has an end, whether or not you know when or where it is.
Maybe I’m just strangely optimistic. I can tell you I was never this way prior to the Corps.

But really. It could always be worse.

Or maybe it’s just you.

Life Moves On

I was a mess, you know. After it all happened. I couldn't quite comprehend everything that was happening. I just knew it was over when I heard that night.
I didn't want to believe it was though.
I wanted to believe there was something worth fighting for. Looking back, I don't think there was. I think you were looking for a reason to give up on us.
She fed you a lie, which she had admitted to you later, and you believed it. You believed a complete stranger over me.
Up until the moment I found out what was going on, I was blissfully unaware of what happened. I was thinking about when you would return from Afghanistan. About the package I already put together for you. The letter I was excited to send you in the bottom of it.
I had no doubt that I would stand by you throughout this.

But then that news was broken to me. The one who told me tried to break it gently about what happened. There is no way news of such a underhanded thing can be broken easily.
It's hard to describe the cascade of emotions that ran through me at that point. The sick feeling in my stomach. I had promised, prior to hearing, that I wouldn't retaliate. I didn't. I still haven't. Despite how much I wanted to.
I don't remember much from those first few moments. The cuts and bruises on my hands say I punched some things. Wall lockers. The wall. Probably the door when I flew out the room.
I don't know if you know what it's like to have your world flipped like that. To feel this massive, all-consuming void inside you.
I remember collapsing to the floor when I made it back to my room. I remember dialing the number of the only person I could think of to tell this all to. Then I abruptly remembered I couldn't talk to her; she was on post.
My world crumbled. I remember being yelled at to pull myself together after finding myself on the floor of my room. I couldn't breathe. I thought I couldn't.
I made another phone call. To my sergeant. She'd been to the sandbox a few times. She knew what it was like over there. She also knew what it was like to be waiting stateside for someone to come home.
I told her what happened

Driving. Northbound. I was tired of crying. My buddy, he came with from the schoolhouse and was a squad leader there alongside me, was kind enough to just drive.
We found ourselves at a Silver Diner somewhere on the fringes of the NCR, middle of the night.
That's when I finally found the words to say to you. To try and explain. What a dismal failure that was. I knew you wouldn't want to hear it. But I had to try, you understand?
I'd hate myself even more if I hadn't tried everything I could. Though you can't salvage anything from a wreck that's been completely vaporized.
That's the funny thing, I don't know if it's a me-thing or something I've managed to acquire since becoming a Marine, but despite the fact I know failure is unavoidable... I'll still fight it until the bitter end. And I did.
We eventually came back to base. I passed out in bed, it was futile waiting for you to respond.
You did, finally.

I woke up to that.
My initial response? Find her. I wanted to confront her. Since that still hadn't happened since learning of it. I never did. She was hiding away in a friend's room. Instead, clutching my phone and keys, unable to stand any longer, sit down on the floor babbling. Babbling like a goddamn lunatic, just repeating over, "She needs to fix this. Why would she do this." her friend tried comforting me, which was weird.
Then out of no where, I get up and sprint down the hallway, down the ladderwell, back to my room.
At that point, I called your mom. You know this, I'm sure of it. She'd never keep that from you. I think I told her what happened, I don't know anymore. Life from that point just blurred together. Yes, I know I pretty much said fuck you to the whole, "Don't contact me or my family ever again." portion of what you said. As I've said before, I had to try and make things right. At that point, the objective was no longer to hold onto the dying relationship so much as to have you believe me.

Walking. I left my part of base. Just walked. My friend, the one who I couldn't contact the night before, called asking if I was alright. I briefly explained. She picked me up. Drove around base. I talked. I cried. I was numb.
We pulled into a parking lot near the little riverfront park.
Then the most unusual thing occurred. I got a text message from the most unexpected person on the face of this planet.
Your closest friend from Lost in the Woods.
If it weren't for the fact that everything had stopped making sense already, I'm positive my mind would have been blown.  I don't know if you knew he was texting me. You both were sitting through briefs all morning. But he was a big comfort, he believed I wasn't capable of hurting you like she said. He told me to let go. That you already moved on, and I hated myself so much in that moment.

I wandered the little wooded trails for most of the morning after that. It was nice being alone, though no one really wanted me to be left unattended at that point. It was pathetic, looking back on it, my pleading with you. You already made up your mind.

Later, much later, I return to the room. I finally confront her. But instead of yelling, being angry, I just talk to her. Normal conversational voice. Of course, she screamed like a five year old child. She yelled about how she could have done so much worse to me. Honestly, I doubt that. She already did do the worst to me. Also, the apparent rumor that I heard a little later was that she "beat the shit" out of me and "had to be pulled off". When I heard this, I laughed. It was the first time I had legitimately laughed in a while.
I just let her yell. I didn't know I could be so patient. Don't get me wrong, I loathe her existence. But I pity her, mostly. She'll get what she deserves in the end. She's the one who has to live with that judgement weighing on her soul.
Since then. She's tried "making it up" to me. She thinks we're BFFs or some shit. I don't speak to her more than necessary, I'm polite simply because I know I'm better than that. I read what she sent you, she showed me.She thought, by her insincere apologies to me and a very forced message to you, that she was good and all was forgiven.
I cannot wait to move out of this damn room. As it turns out, she will be sharing a head with someone else whose relationship she tried fucking up. Funny how that works.

I've wanted to know something. We would've ended even without her being the precipitate, wouldn't we?

I am convinced that it would have. You're with someone else already. Someone who you were with before, I imagine. It's none of my business, really.
You stopped talking to me after October 23rd. Then out of the blue a month later, you try to spark conversation. That set me back quite a ways. I still cannot figure out how, "Don't contact me ever again..." turns into "Hey. How's Virginia treating you?"
I'm sure I was a borderline alcoholic for a while. A functioning one, and it did not interfere with work at all considering I'm still being praised for being a squared away Marine. It's funny how you can hide the hurt when duty calls.

I'm improving. Instead of drinking every moment I have off, like it was for a while, I'm back to where I was before all of this.


Whether or not we want it to, life continues on with or without us. It's finding the strength to get up and carry on that ends up being the real trick.
And I have.
Mostly.

Life has been... Different.
That's all for now. Maybe I'll update you as to the weird turns life has taken me since then.

Back in Business

20121209

So it's been a while.

 

Maybe more than a handful of years since I've done this whole blogging thing. To say the least, I've done some growing up since then. Lived life a little. Went to college. Joined the Marine Corps.

And here I find myself again. Writing. Writing to express so many pent up emotions and thoughts. A way to decompress, I suppose.

We'll see how this goes, if it'll stick around.