Saturday, February 27, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Every day, I come home and sit at my computer desk. On my desk are two toys. One is a 1/24 scale model of a 1957 Chevy Corvette, the first model I ever completed. I have no idea why I keep it, or the plastic James Hetfield figure on my desk, but I cannot bring myself to throw them away. Why do I keep these things? They have no true value, nor do they have any (that I am aware of) true sentimental value. I didn't win my father's love for the first time by assembling a model car, nor did I ever see Metallica in concert. I like they way they look, but they look out of place on my desk. As I look around my house, I see many more objects that don't mean anything. The baseball signed in faded ink by the 1994 Houston Astros that I signed my Dad up for at a silent auction. A cedar case with over a thousand stamps that were given to me by my uncle who got tired of trying to sort them.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Today, my complaint is about sheep.
They are pompous animals. Think they're all bad 'n' stuff cuz they grow ridiculous amounts of hair. Outrageous amounts of hair, really. Who needs that much fuzz?
And when they get fully furry, they just waddle around like cotton balls with legs - and made of wool. Not cotton. I'd be more respectful if they were made of cotton. At least that stuff is useful.
I don't mean to start any arguments here. Sheep aren't like penguins, with their own movie that actually makes them look smart. That's the only reason people like penguins, anyway. They are truly evil creatures. But back to sheep...
Sheep are stupid, and serve no purpose other than to grow non-synthetic fibers that is just as itchy as synthetic, if not more, and to be both soul partner and source of income for most of Tennessee.
They even have a song! Here's my song:
Bah! Bah! Dumb sheep - Make me a shirt.
Catchy, isn't it?
If you see a sheep, don't try to hit it with anything smaller than a Ford F-150 (the old ones.) God may have made them stupid, but he gave them protection. That fur acts as a cushion against blows, and in cases of extreme gravitation pull when they are led off of a cliff by a person with a well-trained sheepdog, a parachute. Unless you've got the time to shave every one of them, we need a plan. Wallace, of Wallace & Grommit Fame, had a brilliant machine for this very thing. We can't wait until the next shaving season to start this war, people. The Genocide of Sheep commences today!
And if you doubt me, look into the eyes of the evil animal with the "No" sign over it above. Can't you just see the plotting? CAN'T YOU?
Monday, March 31, 2008
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I was diagnosed officially in April/May of 2007. It wasn't a surprise. Some people wanted, even tried for those words. People who were getting out, looking for that little bit of disability.
Of course I wasn't sleeping. I avoided stressful situations of any sort, I had problems with crazy drivers. I wanted to be armed 24/7. I knew the signs. I just wanted help.
The Doc for my unit couldn't confirm it, so he sent me to the Floor Seven of the hospital. Within an hour, I got the official word. It didn't help. In fact, it probably hurt more than it helped. If I had not known, I probably would have forced it away. More on the possible good/evil of that later.
I spent four months talking to my doctor. At first, I felt better. My words were rushed, at first, because I wanted so much to completely spill what was driving me to all sorts of paranoid and skittish. But when I felt I had started to get something done, my hour was up. It hurt. More than most people ever know.
After that first one, it felt like I was forcing myself to spew my feelings, so I could get as much done as possible. Therapy had, in one session, become like every other aspect of my life. It wasn't worth it. I got a few tips that helped me sleep, but the biggest problem, my anger, never dissipated. So I eventually got to the point where I told the Doctor that I had no more issues, because as much as I liked getting out of work, I hate wasting my time.
So almost a year later, here I am. Deployment is advancing on me again, and I am more nervous of returning home twice as jacked up as I was last time, which would definitely not bode well for the marriage that I love so much.
Back to that thing I mentioned before. I don't worry about the deployment. I have a specific job, and certain personnel requirements within my unit dictate that I stay decently safe, or at least within five minutes of my work, where I will be required to answer a ridiculous question before I can leave, that means I shouldn't be doing grunt work. Not that I want to, I had enough of that last time.
But now I worry about getting nervous about the little things that most people don't know about, but most Marines and Soldiers, along with certain Sailors and Airmen can attest to. They say it's the little things that can kill you. The Details that you miss and boom! You no longer make witty comments.
My fear of fearing these things once I return is what bothers me now.
But my hope is that my means of deployment will assist the healing before I even get home, and once I do, my beautiful wife will be there for me, like she always has.
I just hope I can open up to her this time, without worrying about scaring her away.