I won’t bother with the military jargon. Frankly, that’s only used to prove something to other vets. I’m not trying to prove anything.
It was mostly waiting around. Discipline was gratefully received, as most of the world denied uniformity and order. Others played games.
If you were talented, mildly psychotic, and dumb you were enlisted in operations that actually got kills. The higher-ups would treat the young pup to a perfectly choregraphed display of precision violence. They knew that these privates-turned-corporals would peak at the opportunity to align their sights on a poor fish-in-a-barrel muskrat, that recon had done a decade of research on.
Getting tags becomes the motivation. Gripping the trigger like pulling down the lever on a slot machine, only to guarantee a feature. It’s fucking gambling. You ‘put your life on the line’ only to be surprised when you hear the other end of a whizz-fuck-crack-.308-how-did-they-get-that-shit? You’re trained for it, you run into it, and you know what to do; but don’t give me that fucking hogwash of iron stomachs. It’s a surprise every time. Even when getting the confirmation to engage it’s a fucking surprise when they actually shoot back.
But it was mostly just waiting. Waiting for the 4-hour long drive to end, only to wait at a base for another 4-hour long drive.
Order didn’t matter when I came back. In fact, most everyone that I had ties with relished in their ability to ride their own crafted wave of chaos. Sure, I was in chaotic situations, but order always brought those to an end. Order triumphed in the face of chaos.
Discipline, replaced with routine. I always thought I was serving over there, and only surviving back here. It seems that most everyone feels the same. I’ve gotten better at reading the room. You would be surprised how similar the look that a starving frame with a gunked-up AK pointing at what their blurry vision determines is your head, and the general public. I’m not saying I’m a threat. I’m just saying that most people wish they had a rifle pointed at the nearest pedestrian at all times while they walk to the post office.
It’s good moving in a pack. Numbers are always safer than ability.
I understand that I lack intimacy. My wife becomes a ball of panic whenever I suggest a forehead to the chest, grasp hips and hold until either the serenity or heat take hold. A cradle of support doused with commiseration and dedication, melting into everything and nothing in between. I’m not talking about sex.
Fucking pervert.
That’s what she accused me of last week. She happened upon a spam email I got from the camgirl site that I’ve been frequenting. I told her that everyone gets these emails, and that’s why it’s in my spam.
She’s been having a hard time touching me lately. I… don’t want to get into it.
ZCUMCORE 
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