Another unwanted day rolls along here in Baghdad. It's filled to the brim with the usual strange salutes and awkward hellos that always seem to plague days like this. Recruiter never told me that there would be days like this one. Momma never did either. The worst way to start a day like today, especially after a long night of a half gone moon and the chaos that only a full one can bring, is when you have to wake up. It's not that the act of getting up, shaving your teeth or brushing your face that gets to you, or the fact that you only slept for a few winks and have to do the unwanted. It's the pounding of hammers, the backing up of trucks, and the breaking of glass that makes it unbearable.
About the time my ipod stopped screeching the Pearl Jam into my ears, was about the time I woke up. Not because of the absence of the melodic Ed Ved purring in my ears, but because of the constant bang and smack of the hammer just outside my window. It was the second day in a row, the same time that the annoyance of working men startled me awake. My first suspicions of a terrorist attack were thrown out the window, when my old roommate Nicky the Chin DeDario stated with his thunderous voice how great the Gold and Blue of the Irish were this year, despite their loss to Michigan. I listened for as long as I could will my eyes shut, before reaching back to my ipod and pressing the triangle for luck. The same songs already running through my brief dreams started their journey again. The volume didn't seem like it was loud enough to even block out the scurrying of a mouse. With the great effort that anything takes when you are sleep deprived, abruptly and unwantingly awoken, I tapped the volume to it's max, and searched for the sheep further down the path.
Bang and buzz and smash and crash came louder and louder. The volume struggled to climb further but had already reach the summit. I kept my eyes willed shut and begged for the mercy of sleep to take hold. When it finally did, too late, time to get up. Important day ahead, everyone must get out of bed. The freshness of a cool shave and clean socks were wasted again in my haste. In one month perhaps I will start to enjoy mornings again.
The sun had already risen straight over head, and even this far into October, had yet to yield it's touch. It penetrated the clothes and started the sweat. We were the ants that we always are, working too busy for the task at hand. We finished up our tasking at hand, another day in the heat and sand. It's already the 13th, and we're feeling spry. Under 30 days for us all. The packing up, the extra bullshit we are dealing with, all the process of going home. The consilation to it all I suppose. Especially in the contrast to the usual what-the-hell am I supposed to take from this that is our normal?
Hide the AT-4 step-child. We finished operation Cinderella, and Phase II as well. We even completed Catastrophuck CCCXIVCXX something r'other along with classified operation Sitaround&waitforhoursonendwhentheotherpeoplecanjustdriveanother1500meters&dothesamething III. Even complimented on our ability to handle the bullshit of these missions, told that we are the hardest workers, and yet when Jeziesman holds his last supper, it's the kiddie room for us. Out of sight, and beaten back like the red headed step children we are, the Soup Nazi's NO SOUP FOR YOU! Only, perhaps we don't care because it's not Rigatoni, but Iraqi-butt food. Our battalion elite unit, the eldest son was even banished with the arrival of our presence. Now we're the red head stepchild that isn't only just cleaning up, but also doing the 'glorified job' of the eldest boy. We're the JV squad that's better than the Varsity, and squashin' 'em.
I catch a break, then a punch to the head, I smile big with a toothless grin. -Eddie Vedder
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