I'm Still Alive. Promise.

I haven't been kidnapped by midget pirates.
Or strangled and put through a woodchipper.
I have not gone UA, run off to Canada to marry a lumberjack.
I haven't drowned trying to swim the English Channel.
Nor have I been shot in a quail hunting "accident".

No, I'm still here. And still very much so okay.

There are just some days where you simply do not want to get out of bed. Or even do much of anything that you don't have to do.
I just happen to have had quite of few of those days lately.
And I've also been at work a lot, so I'm sure that's a contributing factor.

Since you know that I'm alive now, I'm going to go run along. I promise I'll have a better blog entry next time.
I kind of owe you, right?

Slightly Intoxicated Rant v1.2 - Bro Status and "Finally Accepting It"

Please note, I've been drinking tonight. And I'm in an awfully cheerful mood.
 Now...


Raise your hand if you've never been completely okay with who you are.
That's most of us, right?
Now put your hand down if you still aren't.
Mine is still raised.

I don't know if yours is or not, but quite frankly, that's something you're going to have to tackle on your own.
You may confide in friends, family and loved ones, but ultimately no one is going to help you be comfortable in your own skin except for yourself.
That sounds harsh, but it is undoubtedly true.
You can either accept who you are and make strides toward achieving the best you...
Or adversely....
You can choose to loathe the person you are, despite the fact you're either trying to change it or are absolutely unwilling to.
That's up to you.

Me?
Well.
There are parts of me that, in the past, I've locked away, never wanted to come to terms with or simply did not want to believe are true about myself.
This past month or two have been fairly interesting. I've found out uncomfortable truths about myself. And those things that I've locked away? Well, those certainly have made a break for freedom. I know, escape attempts are authorizations for the use of deadly force, but really, I haven't had the heart to. Or maybe I finally think they were shut away for very unjust reasons.
Either way.
They're out there. Running ramped. Causing mayhem and destruction.

But you know what? I. Don't. Care.
It's a part of the fabric of my being. Who I am. And well, it hasn't hurt anyone yet.
I'm not any different.
I'm still LCpl Wood, regardless. I'm still the same person you met originally. I'm still me.
The only difference is that I've come to terms with all my perceived faults.
I'm happier for it, too.

Obscure rant finished.
Moving along.

Bro status?
Yeah, I've coveted that achievement for a while.
In a predominately male world that is the Marine Corps, I think that's a very valued place.
The whole being accepted as "One of the guys" is fairly important to me. Albeit, the ones who have given me this status are ones I've known for a cool minute, it still is awesome.
I don't think you quite understand the range of freedom that gives me.
I can go out with my guy friends, and I can drink, chill, I'm in on "Bro-code". And it won't be under the pretense of trying to fuck me. So. That's a great thing.
Onnnn the flip side, I will have to deal with jealous-as-fuck significant others. Which is such a damn hassle because they don't quite "get it" with being a female that's become just one of the guys.
Obviously, I'm not after their man. If I were, I wouldn't have wound up with the title I have. Also, I generally wind up knowing all the disgusting, perverse male things that they talk about or think. So. Why the fuck would I want that? I don't.
But on the positive side, I'm not excluded just because they want a "guy's night out".

So props to me.
Well. I'm not making much sense at this point, it's just putting a stream of consciousness down on the screen at this point. So I should go. 

A Phone Call That Changed It All

 The day I stood on the infamous Yellow Footprints is coming up in a few days. So today's blog post is dedicated to my sisters of Oscar Company, Platoons 4008 and 4009, and to the women who turned us into the Marines that we are today.

"How do you feel about going to boot camp early?"
"When?"
"Tomorrow."

I had a choice to make. Wait until the 22nd of January, or leave a little under three weeks early.
Feet first, I took that plunge.
Twenty-four hours.
That's what I had to settle any and all affairs that I had planned to take care of in the following two-and-half weeks.
A lot of people, I never said goodbye to. Maybe it was better that way. One of the things I learned is that when you keep moving, you don't have time think about being afraid.

The next day, before my recruiter drove me to MEPS the final time, I went out for my "last meal"  at home, as I liked to call it. Gyros and Greek fries. My stomach was roiling. I couldn't eat more than two bites.
Excitement.
This was finally happening.
Nervousness.
First wannabe Marine in the family; what the hell am I getting myself into?
Sleep-deprived.
I stayed up most of the night packing up my entire room so my parents wouldn't have to.

Jeans, t-shirt, Chucks, Northface jacket.
Driver's license, social security card, and two recruiter cards
That's all I left with. As per my recruiter.

He offered me one last chance at food before dropping me off at the hotel we stayed at for MEPS.
Chipotle. I declined. My stomach still hadn't settled down.
That night I met one girl who would eventually become a sister. She's in Okinawa now.
She was my roommate, and as it turns out from my recruiting station. She left that night. I still had to go to MEPS in the morning. Then I'd be sent out the next day.
When I went to dinner both nights, anyone who talked to me thought I was absolutely daft for joining the Marines. 
I didn't believe them.
That is until I sprinted out of a damn van in the middle of unusually warm January night and onto those infamous yellow footprints. To the screams of a voice that represented everything I would learn to hate, loathe, fear, respect, and in it's own weird way, come to love.
It was my very first encounter with a female drill instructor.

I remember the exact set of footprints I stood on.
Front, right corner.
There were three of us in our receiving group. Some of you might think that's very fortunate. It was... Not.
That staff sergeant. She knew my name. And she remembered it until the day I marched across the parade deck three months later.

I also remember needing to pee like crazy. Well. That had to wait. For a very. Very. Long. Time.
I was the one who learned what a hatch was first. To get it. To get back. To get it.
To open my fat face and fucking scream.
Oh. So you don't want to scream "Aye ma'am", huh you disgusting thing? GET BACK!

What.
The.
Fuck.
Did.
I.
Get.
Myself.
Into.
FUCK.


A blur. That's what receiving was after a certain point. Cooper's Color Code Black? Ahhhh haha. Nah. Well. Maybe.
So I didn't have tenni-runners (Go-Fasters for you males, and running shoes for normal human beings. Wtf is a 'tenni-runner'?) when they took the last vestiges of my previous life away in a brown paper bag. Everything except my green Converse. I was issued my running shoes after that.
I had managed to hide my shoes in the bottom of my footlocker for three months.
God knows I was horrified what would happen if my stuff was ever dumped. I'm sure it might have ended up something like Private Pyles' jelly donut. Uggggh.
I was... Lucky.

Black Friday was a blur too. The day you meet your drill instructors. That was intimidating as hell.
Then the games began with gear.
And screaming.

I became a part of 4th Recruit Training Battalion.
Oscar Company.
Platoon 4009.

I remember very distinctly hating Drill Instructor Sergeant Creel in the beginning.
Well.
She hated my "heinous ass voice".
It was pretty nasty, admittedly.
Platoon 4008 knew who I was because they'd hear DI Sgt Creel always screaming, "WOOD! YOUR VOICE IS FUCKING HEINOUS!"
"RECEIVED MA'AM!"
She was the one who brought me to the sand pit most often. Or anywhere for a wonderful IT session.
One day, it was the laundry room.
I fucked up in drill. Go figure.
That IT session felt like it would never end. Hell, the recruits DI Sgt Shippen brought in after me left before me.
Sgt Creel quietly informed me that I could go back to drilling with the platoon as soon as I got the floor wet. I was drenched. But none of that sweat hit the floor. She wanted the impossible.
My automatic response was to take my sweat-streaked face and...
Rub it all across the floor. It was the only way I was going to get that floor wet.
She momentarily lost her bearing. She looked confused, shocked and disgusted all in a split second.
"Get UP! GET OUT. FLY! I SAID FLY!"

I did some ridiculous shit.
I think we all did.

Funny thing? In the end, I requested that I be in her squad for The Crucible. The one drill instructor I thought I hated the most ended up being my favorite.
It was her first cycle fresh out of DI school.


I was that recruit who would talk... Well... Yell, that is, in her sleep.
Awesome.
They have some pretty funny stories.
Such as the time I sat bolt upright in my rack and gobbled like a turkey and laid back down.
Or reciting the firewatch report. Perfectly. Though for the life of me I would stumble through it when awake.
Or those random ass screams of, "AYE MA'AM!".

Yeah. That recruit. There were a few of us, actually. But my turkey noise night was pretty notable.

Well.
I hate to bore you to death with my boot stories. I have too many.
But quite honestly, those were some of the best shitty times.

For the life of me, I would never take back going to boot camp early.
I wound up with the best drill instructors to shape me into a Marine.
I found sisters that I will have until the day I stop breathing and walking this earth.

I'm not from Nasty November.
Nor am I a Pretty Papa.
I'm motherfucking Outstanding Oscar.




And one more thing...
PINK ON A MAP?!
MA'AM, PINK ON A MAP IS ALPHA COMPANY, MA'AM!