The Rules of Perception

If I told you that I wanted to die you would take it all wrong. Your ears would hear something different from what I really mean. The words would sound pathetic to you, like I'm a dark soul who's given up on the world and can't hack it.
What I really mean is that I want to shed the skin of who I am, not live this life anymore. I want to shake off the shackles of my reality and awaken to a new one in which I have more energy and a social life, intelligence and will.
You see, it seems to me that it's easy for you to be who you are. For me it's a curse. My body is separate from my mind and soul. I hover above myself, watching, screaming at the top of my ghost lungs to get up, do something different, live in the moment.
Sometimes I get so fed up with myself that I end up leaving myself for awhile; who knows where I go when this happens. But when it does happen, my body acts independent of a soul; just an empty compilation of atoms in motion.
I don't know how often it happens. Perhaps it's happened since the dawn of time. Maybe I'm never really me, maybe me is something else every time (a tree, a pilot, a baker, art in a museum) and this me, right now, is just the me of right now.
And I'm not going to kill myself. The truth is, death terrifies me. The thought of the unknown darkness makes me nervous. And I couldn't cut myself, or pull the trigger on a gun. I don't even have the desire to take large quantities of pills because I'd probably just end up making myself sick and have to succumb to an inch wide tube being shoved down my throat and swallowing charcoal that would make my stool black for days.
And I don't want my parents, friends or family to be sad. I don't want them to visit me in the hospital while my hair is still stringy from the vomit that was too much for the inch wide tube to handle. I don't want them to pray over me and ask me what's wrong, what they did or can do now to show me they love me. I don't want them to see my pale face that I would secretly hope to be clear for weeks because of my cleansed system.

The Greatest Navy in a Whirl

More than almost anything, I loathe going on board ships. The smell of burned grease from the Hardy's rejected food cooked in the galley permeates everything and leaves its residue on all surfaces. That smell, the overpowering smokey smell, combined with wet metal leaves its mark in one's nostrils. The ladder wells, the mattresses, the decks and bulkheads and a person's skin are slick with a combination of oil and sea water. The glazed look in the eye of each blue jumpsuited Sailor is telling of the poor nutrition, lack of excercise and sunshine and the loneliness they endure. In dark corners men and women can be found lurking, planning port rendezvous, or flirting heavily with one another before they sit down to write emails to their children and spouses waiting for them at home.

Ships are never really clean, despite "sweepers" or "cleaning stations" or "field days" which sounds like fun, but never is. These jobs end up being delegated to the lowest ranks, to those who are disgruntled, and it shows. Time spent waxing decks or polishing brass is, within hours, ruined by careless fire hose teams dragging damp, mud smearing hoses through passageways while some Ensign (no doubt a graduate of the Naval Academy), younger, and with less time in service than they have, screams at them to go faster, be safer, hydrate, don protective gear and doff protective gear. The hose team prays for the order to doff and hydrate as they stand in a passageway in which the air has been secured in the middle of an afternoon with 100 degree, 90% humidity weather wearing 20 lbs of protective clothing.

On a ship, a Sailor's solace is his rack. It is behind those thin, blue curtains, 4x7 foot coffins, stacked three high, that Sailors find the only privacy to be found in the six, eight or ten months they are cutting through the ocean toward a hot war that doesn't mean anything to them. They float along at night, half of them in their coffins, while the red lights overhead create a womb-like calm for the coming day in which they will carry out the orders of their Chief, who's carrying out the orders of his Lieutenant, who's carrying out the orders of the Captain, who's carrying out the orders of the TYCOM, who's carrying out the orders of the CNO, who's carrying out the orders of the Secretary of Defense, who's carrying out the orders of the President, who is carrying out the orders of God and the Rich.

Sea Duty

The newest chapter in my dramatic life involves negotiating my next set of orders. I have major pressure from my detailer to take a ship. Some people want me to go to Iraq. I want to go home.
So I thought I would compromise. I put in a request for a billet at Commander Naval Forces Europe staff. Sounds good to me, plus it's sea duty. It's in Italy and the thought of going back both excites me and makes me sad.
I will miss my brother's daughter, Madlynn's first years. I long to be Aunt Trish. I long to be Wife or Mom.
But Italia! I miss it. I love it. I want it!

cobwebs on dead mint

I've been depressed for the last month. I've watched endless hours of DVR'd episodes of Will and Grace, The Simpsons, What not to Wear, and Friends. I've also layed on my couch for hours looking at VH1s I love the 70s and 80s. I love that Mexican guy who was on Boogie Nights and Mo Roca.
I'm on the Zoloft now. It's supposed to help me have more energy but it doesn't. Have I told you that I think cocaine should be legalized? If only for my benefit. I need it. Coffee isn't working anymore. It just gives me headaches. I take migraine medicine now. It makes me spacey. Not tired, just retarded enough to sit through hours of VH1 programming.
My house is filthy. I don't walk barefoot because my feet end up with shedded hair and crumbs on them. My sink is full of stinking dishes. I can't open my refrigerator door anymore because something is rotten in there and I don't even want to think about cleaning it up.
I only wash clothes that I need. I don't put them away, I just take them out of the dryer when I need them and throw them on the ground when I'm done wearing them. It helps keep the crumbs off my feet when I walk to and from the bathroom barefoot in the middle of the night.
my front tooth is broken. I broke it on a pistachio. Ed told me not to do it, that I would break my tooth, but I pishawed him. My tooth broke that instant. I can't bite anything with my front teeth now. It's more difficult than it sounds. I bought a sandwich for lunch, not realizing it would require biting and my tooth fell out. I pushed it back in and sucked my teeth like old people do to hold their dentures in.