I'm Shawn Marvis Perkins (for whatever reason our middle names come from our grandfathers first name), a Specialist in the United States Cavalry. I've been reading you for six weeks or so, give or take, and I'm not sure exactly how I found you, though it's most likely through a search on one of my more obscure interests (five or less people using it) or one of our mutual "friends" (and I hate that LJ calls it that, because it's more of a list of what I read).
(I don't normally use parens so much, but I'm trying to fit a lot in here.)
I'm not sure what exactly inspires me anymore, though once upon a time I'm sure there was something; lately I have more and more trouble remembering who I was in my past lives. I do get, as we say in line units, "a hard on" from macho shit. Loud war cries, shooting expert, ruck marches of over ten miles, or just ruck runs: all good shit and motivation. So is just about anything to do with hot chicks, as we so rarely come into contact with them, and when we do, the ratio is very skewed.
Lately, well lately I've been fighting a war. It seems like it's all I've ever done. There is no beauty here. I keep looking for it, or even something pretty. And there's nothing. It's bitter, it's ugly, it smells--literally--like shit. Think of seeing various shades of brown with every sense, not just sight.
I want everyone to know....
I want everyone to know there's about twenty thousand of us during any given week that haven't slept very well. Haven't ate worth a damn. That we're filthy, sore, suffering from various ailments and wounds that we don't bother going to a medic for. I want everyone to know that we're walking canals and bomb ridden roads, hiking across the desert and driving through neighborhoods that are the very definition of poverty. I want everyone to know that people are dying everywhere, blown apart by their own people. I want everyone to know that we all volunteered to come here, and make all that better. I want everyone to know the names of my friends and the guys I've served with that aren't coming back.
I want everyone to know that we're doing it for them, and not to forget it.
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I'm not sure if you really wanted this response, because I get confused by your posts at times.
Date: 2005-11-05 01:18 pm (UTC)(I don't normally use parens so much, but I'm trying to fit a lot in here.)
I'm not sure what exactly inspires me anymore, though once upon a time I'm sure there was something; lately I have more and more trouble remembering who I was in my past lives. I do get, as we say in line units, "a hard on" from macho shit. Loud war cries, shooting expert, ruck marches of over ten miles, or just ruck runs: all good shit and motivation. So is just about anything to do with hot chicks, as we so rarely come into contact with them, and when we do, the ratio is very skewed.
Lately, well lately I've been fighting a war. It seems like it's all I've ever done. There is no beauty here. I keep looking for it, or even something pretty. And there's nothing. It's bitter, it's ugly, it smells--literally--like shit. Think of seeing various shades of brown with every sense, not just sight.
I want everyone to know....
I want everyone to know there's about twenty thousand of us during any given week that haven't slept very well. Haven't ate worth a damn. That we're filthy, sore, suffering from various ailments and wounds that we don't bother going to a medic for. I want everyone to know that we're walking canals and bomb ridden roads, hiking across the desert and driving through neighborhoods that are the very definition of poverty. I want everyone to know that people are dying everywhere, blown apart by their own people. I want everyone to know that we all volunteered to come here, and make all that better. I want everyone to know the names of my friends and the guys I've served with that aren't coming back.
I want everyone to know that we're doing it for them, and not to forget it.
There's nothing new under the sun.