Every so often, I think it would be a good idea to start a journal. I have a bad memory, you see, and even though I sometimes hate my life, I’d hate even more to forget it. And yet, so far, most of the important details ARE forgotten. Where to start?
What is Dead Men Tell No Tales? It is a selection of (hitherto) undisclosed, private ruminations and epiphanies. Most take the form of (slightly) edited letters to unnamed recipients, but some have been scavenged from the depths of private journals recently rediscovered. Over the next little while (however long it takes – days, weeks, months, years?) I’ll be posting them in episodic fashion for the reading pleasure of my nonexistent audience.
In The Keesler Saga, our melancholy author reflects on his experiences at his MOS School. Arrival was a reflection from a few scant days after reporting in to the detachment.
I used to hate my family. That used to define me, shape my very being. I couldn’t recall much of why – my mother was cruel and emotionally abusive; my sister was a dramatic, trust-betraying bitch; my father was an empty-promise flingin’ wreck full of self pity, if he was around; my brother was a tortured alcoholic with so much wasted promise. I don’t speak to them much now – my mom seemingly realized her mistakes after I left almost two years ago, so we’re on better terms.
I don’t get along with, understand, and most of the time, desire the company of women. I have, as most males have, been smmitten with my fair share of girls. I had a girlfriend. I even think I fell in love, once (may still be in love, in fact), though it was an unrequited one. I know all of the right things for my friends to say, but rarely know the words for myself.
I have few friends, and the roster grows slimmer as years go by. Even before I left for boot camp, Kai and I had grown apart. Katie tolerates me, at best. Nick, Jake, Nate…all buddies, but little more. Rachel could have been good, but I messed that up by wanting more. Abigail? Never had much of a chance.
Which brings me here, to the Marine Detachment on Keesler Air Force Base, serving as a Private First Class in the United States Marine Corps. Where else was I to go? Give me free time, and I brood. See?
There is much to write about, and at the same time, very little. Odd? Perhaps. The two most important things in my life – Sara, and the novel – seem so far away. I miss them.
Today was the end of my first weekend at KAFB. On Friday, I went to the mall with Sierra (arrived last week), Bravo (buddy from boot), and Kilo (cool guy from Chicago). Kilo had to drive Ruthy, his Navy broad, back to base, so we rendezvoused with Zulu (shares similar views, good music taste) and Whiskey (wrestler) and ate at El Ranchos. Saturday I saw Step Up 2 with Bravo and Sunday I spent watching movies on T.V.
I am unfulfilled. 20:57.