Maaaad 3521 Skillz

Me: Gonna knock this oil change out!
Truck: ...
Me: Got the truck jacked up, jack stands in place.
Truck: ...
Me: Drainplug removed, draining oil.
Truck: ...
Me: Now to change the oil filter. Wait, I don't have a strap wrench.
Truck: ...
Me: No problem! (As George Lopez) I GOT THIS!
Truck: ...
Me: (removing my belt) Check this out...

Round 1: Me/Belt VS Truck - Truck wins
Round 2: Me/Screwdriver and Hammer VS Truck - Truck wins
Round 3: Me/Ratchet Extension and Hammer VS Truck - Truck wins
Round 4: Me/15/16 Wrench and Hammer VS Truck - Truck wins

(45 mins - 1 hour later)

Truck: ...
Me: Hmmm... Maybe I should try turning it the OTHER WAY!
Truck: idiot.

Round 5: Me/Belt (pulling in OPPOSITE direction) VS Truck - ME WINS!...
... = automatic FAIL

Me: ... (completes task with head hung in shame...)

Tuesday, September 11, 2001

It was around 6 something in the morning. I woke up with enough time to jump into my cammies and head out the door. I made it a habit to turn on the television to the news every morning as I prepared for another work day. While buttoning up my blouse I paused to watch a breaking news story about some small plane or something that crashed into a building in New York. "Damn." I said with a bit of astonishment. I left my room and headed over to the junior Marines' barracks. I was lucky enough to have my own room in the Sergeant barracks, having been promoted a few months earlier. No more community showers and people banging on doors during reveille, lance corporals and pfc's getting drunk and horse-playing in the halls, and the number one reason I loved being in the Sergeant barracks... NO DUTY, on post, that is. You still had to pull duty in the junior Marines' barracks.

The Voice

Last night I went to bed immediately after blogging. My mind, still geared in recall, presented me with an open Pandora's Box of nightmares. I awoke, drenched in sweat, frightened, angry, confused. I lay there for another hour and a half trying to calm down and get back to sleep. The voice had returned. Not voices, just one voice. I cannot hear the voice, but it is not mine. It has no accent, it has no sound, as far as I can tell, meaning I can not hear anything audible, yet in my head the voice is speaking. It's like reading silently to yourself, you see the words, and you read them without the use of audible vocalization. 

The PTSD Monster Part 4: Quarters

We sat out in the Kuwait desert for far too fucking long. For over a month we sat there, throwing rocks and doing whatever bullshit to keep from going stir-crazy.
The convoy there was something something I won't forget. First off the ship, February 14, 2003. Managed to get half of the vehicles offloaded before the sandstorm became too intense to continue. We were stranded ashore until the storm passed. Took the time to take a few pictures. Not sure if it was that night or the following night when we did a quick convoy to where ever-the-hell-it-was tent city. We took off at night, that, I remember. I remember driving fast. The Kuwait police had all the intersections blocked off, so it was a straight shot until we veered off into the desert.

The PTSD Monster Part 3: It Ain't Safe Here No More...

It ain't safe here no more...


I remember being at bar / restaurant  with outside entertainment in California a few years back. A place I had been to before. This time was different. Sitting outside around one of those fire pits, I remember it being cold, or what is considered cold by southern California standards. It was a fair amount of people out there. I began to feel uneasy. Annoyed. Not by someone bothering me, but by the people, the audience there to watch the music group play. They were around us and on the balconies above. They were clapping, laughing, dancing, and pissing me off. I felt the walls closing in around me.

The PTSD Monster Part 2: Shitters n' Sandbags

A port-a-john. There were a few out there in Kuwait. At first there was shit-paper, then you had to provide your own. Napkins and wet wipes from MRE's. You made sure to hold onto those when you came across them. Those, and the little bottle of Tabasco sauce. You would want to get to the port-a-john shortly after it was clean. Everything all washed down and a new roll of shit-paper. There were only two drawbacks of being one of the first to use the "Officers' Quarters".

The PTSD Monster Part 1: Initial Onset

This blog is not going to be going in any particular order. That's too taxing, and allows for the you to skip right to the end. Rather, E5E is going to be a hodgepodge of posts. I will post things that come to me as I remember them. This post, this one I have been holding off of for a long time. I hope it provides some insight to those who don't understand PTSD. I'll be chopping it into parts as to not have one long post, allowing you time to go to the lobby and grab yourself a snack. **WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGERS**

July 4th, 2003. I had been home from Iraq a month. Thank God me and my guys made it back all in one piece. I told them "Once I get all of you guys home safe and sound then I'm done." It was be a little while longer until my EAS (End of Active Service) in December, so I just need to ride these few months out, then I'm outta here. I wasn't included on any of the upcoming field ops, so that was a good thing, but, since I was in the rear (with the gear) I got my fair share of barracks duty.

Yellow Footprints

August 23, 1995. Wednesday. There was no bus trip for me. My recruiter drove a handful of us down to P.I. in a van. Before hand we stopped by his apartment to make sure we were ready. My first shave came rushed in the bathroom with the recruiter's razor. My facial hair grew very slow at that time which helped me later on in boot camp.
In a shuttle on the way down to Parris Island. Nighttime. They always take you down there at night. It disorients you. Once you pass through the gates it all goes quiet. It becomes serious. It becomes real. He