just finished rehearsal for possible cordon/search-mission coming up. i think we're in the chute for search squad which be@s the h3ll out of sitting outside waiting for kiposecs wondering wh@ the h3ll's going on inside. this is all tent@ive. it will change. it always does. i meant to start this journal a long time ago when we first started training in scorpius. then i said i'll wait till we hit the ice here. alas i was just too damned lazy. i've been sick since vrishika. possibly acute coryza/influenza/streptococcal pharyngitis...? the medics are mostly useless. so laziness +procrastin@ion are why this journal took a month to get started. +i thought it might be boring. now i think the opposite. as well as my only c@harsis. /p/ I brought the quitar but my only sols to play are the 1.5 @Boundiron. there's just to few precious plancks +too many around to practice the way i would like to. +practicing would constitute sitting in the room around people i would like to get away from +details i'd like to avoid. we spend 4 sols here near Samark+Sulci +2 back @Boundiron. ‘R+R’ wh@ever th@ means. +after you -recovery/refit/guard/hygiene you'd have about 4 kips left. -sleep -e@ing if you choose. you're left w/about 2 kays to yourself. then ya gotta drop +pick up clean gills... blah bleh blooh... I usually buy some snaks drop off my films +try to c@ch a hologrok or two if i can. hologs are wonderful things because for a few plancks or two you forget where you are. i forget the appar@us the azzholez the stink of rotten skingills and everything! /p/ FVCK ENCELADUS. FVCK S@URN. +FVCK THE ARMY. hologs take me back to times where i enjoyed living. /p/ the sync is a gambit. let's say you're miserable. you could do wh@ you're already doing and stay miserable. or you can walk through the quagmire th@'s Camp Boundiron get to the sync + there's a Q out the fvcking lock or even worse you sit down +plug in the DSN + get some fucking memcord. now ya leave dejected + resentful. i've been lucky. i got through every chance. there's nothing better than talking to the momwife when you're surrounded by such hopeless chaos. /p/ the 4 sols in town consist of 2 sols of guard p@rol +walk around town w/way too much gear + look for baddies. mounted is much better. drive around town w/too much gear looking for baddies. guard is essentially... guard. sit in a stinky plystic shack +ponder ways to go home early or go to ranger school. i'll never underst+ th@. i sit +soldream about going home by any means necessary. +then a few plancks l@er i'll be thinking about how hot it would be to be a ranger or SF or some sh1t. maybe i'm on the spectrum? cuz' i can barely hack walking around this town. /p/ the Samark+Sulci used to be ok. i kinda liked it better than Boundiron. @ least here i knew wh@ to expect: dismounted svcks. mounted is hot. but in between you could warm. unless you get herringed into a detail like chow or some sh1t. so there's sorta a schedule +if ya plan right +hide right one can get plenty of sleep here. then everything changes. i think our leadership thought this to be a lot more difficult. then they found out it wasn't th@ bad joe was having fun. +if joe is having fun then joe get's lazy +shoots his brother in the back. complacency. my theory on complacency: one cannot become complacent if one never cared. /p/ they started making things harder. now we can’’t give the kids anything. can't ever talk to anyone. all our sh1t has to be 'dress-right' in this piece of sh1t r@/crap dusty/tombs we're in. sweep +mop after every p@rol. i'm such a fvcking smartazz i'm leaving all my gear on all the time. let my skingills rot. they can cut my corpse out. i'm just a priv@e though. maybe i'm wrong about it all? maybe there are aliens out there with orders to kill us. it just sounds a lot like a momwife using scare-tactics to get their chilrens to behave properly. th@'s wh@ officers are frustr@ed parents. all of them. the NCOs too. they b1tch about the officers but the keep re-enlisting. /p/ some interesting sh1t has gone down here in the last month. we hear gyshots occasionally but see no geysers. one guy shot a r@. lucky fvck. +a bomb went off 300 meters from our basecamp. i slept through it. i thought my buddies were overreacting as usual. they weren't. picked a guy up th@ got blowed/up by a mine. he saw it in a field +threw a snowball @ it. we were first to him. fvcker walked like 30 klicks till he found us. he was smoking +sh1t. weird. fvckin blood all over. so mines are real. there was a mine in town. didn't see it. didn't care too. so sh1t is happening. i don't want to forget it. so my purpose of this journal is facts. wh@ i did. wh@ happened. +so forth. i'll try to limit opinions +feelings. but it's difficult. time to p@rol. 2-3 BAR out
a disposition so dry one could use it on a salad as croutons.
autumnal insights pervade the usual malaise.
'we're gettin' r' dun!' he says.
her hat said, 'drive it like ya stole it.'
'another day, another dollar.'
'a million days, a million dollars.'
dollars and sense.
inaction leads to guilt. television leads to food. food to binging. binging to fapping. fapping to using. using to insanity. insanity to institutions.
humiliation as a worst fear.
puny and feeble, rusted stalwart flaking away to inland winds rushing out to sea. urine splashes ones shins. and it's warm. the chrysalis bursts and we're born with effluvia and shine in the new light from an old star.
"they're all dead ya know? the stars? the hair on your head. the nails you decorate. all dead. all dead." she says, with her hat cocked coyly.
never comfort. never same. never sound. forever deaf. forever lame. forever nouns.
guilt, shame, remorse, and fear all live in the stomach. all crowded on gastric avenue. the binge like a mudslide over their homes. yet, one always gets missed, and helps the others rebuild. so starve them out. impose a drought. accept the thirst, the hunger. and the pain. make it part of you. articulate it. share the burden. lessen the load. build a lever, a wheel, and start a religion. embracing famine, atrocity and wars.
they've got milk and cookies on the ward. line up for snack time. take with food. food. food.
the shackles of wage slavery hanging from limbs and drag down into the mud. it's not outcome projections but manifestation. simply do nothing all week but work. work. sleep. drive. work. for a pittance. a token. a hypocrite. a fraud.
One could purchase tools for escape? books. rations. waterproof matches?
that's how it starts. the rationalizing of one's own servitude begins with some as-yet-unneeded item becoming necessity. suddenly one finds themselves with a wife and kids at walmart "buying" patio furniture on credit.