I suppose saying anything about the Army here is taboo. No threats have been made, and I haven't been black-bagged. All I should say is, I'm ready to get out. Still a little under three years left. Which means it's been a little over five years. Looking back, things are about the same. Frustrated, unproductive, and constant obstacles. No
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Talk to me, Angie. Tell me how you're doing.
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I have a handful of dreams in which I'm dying that I remember. One was locked in a fridge and suffocating while the fridge sank to the bottom. Another I was driving on a slick offramp and drove into a ledge that cut my car in half horizontally. My thoughts aren't really morbid, and if they ever take that turn, I use it more of a motivator than anything else. Like I wouldn't want to die until I had the chance to _______. I'm happy when people share my enthusiasm for something, or when I hear good stories about people's lives. I'm happy when the weekend comes. That last one was kind of an alcohol reason. I'm also happy when I have something to look forward to. When all I've seen is a lot of nothing on the horizon, it's nice to find something positive stop by and say hello.
Wanna make this big baby happy?
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