Well, I checked in today, and one of the three Suicide Girls by my profile pic had been changed. So that was a bit odd, and now I'm scared to switch it back, because such an action could lead to danger... 
I always figured myself for the sort of person that can get acclimated easily when their situation changes drastically. This time around, I might have to re-evaluate.
Acclimated is actually the wrong word. I used to have fun wherever I went. Regardless of how austere things were, I could pop a smile, focus on the better things in hand, rather than lament my situation.
Nowadays, I'm trudging, burning through each day with my sole purpose being to get through the next one even faster. Saturday is the constantly re-setting goal, and not for the old joys of the weekend. Saturday is the one day when I find myself free of responsibility, and can indulge in the sort of activities that will make that day go by even faster than any other, and will likely keep me unconscious for the better part of the next.
When I was a kid, my father gave me the poster version of "Boulevard of Broken Dreams", with James Dean walking lonely, somberly, down an empty, rain-drenched road. I didn't like it then, and wasn't too sad to leave it adorning my father's walls. On Sunday mornings though, through roads and alleys thousands of miles away from home, that's how I find myself.
I guess I'm finally tired of being away from friends and family. There's probably tons of people to meet still, but I can't bring myself to do so as I once did, for the simple reason that I'm being forced to. "Friends" here are the people who you can depend on to look after you when you start losing grips with reality and responsibility--and those who are willing to go pint for pint with you when that's not a factor.
There's a nice girl I know, who I can barely communicate with, but will keep me away from the madness of a daily party with--of all things--a game of pool or darts. But she'll be gone soon enough; that much she could spell out for me. And there's another, who wants nothing more than for us to be able to meet on Saturdays--she free from her university, myself from the military--so we can dance and cavort until the sun rises. But it's like reverse Cinderella in this case. Anything goes in a dance club, but very few want to be seen with a guy whose hair even hints of military (and mine's not even short!) when the dawn breaks.
With nine months to go before I can see those dear to me again, sunlight is becoming a nigh-forgotten, rare pleasure in this mist-ruled land. The fumes released by offal-fueled fields and the tunnels under my weekend-visit metropolis overwhelm my senses.
Goodnight world.
I always figured myself for the sort of person that can get acclimated easily when their situation changes drastically. This time around, I might have to re-evaluate.
Acclimated is actually the wrong word. I used to have fun wherever I went. Regardless of how austere things were, I could pop a smile, focus on the better things in hand, rather than lament my situation.
Nowadays, I'm trudging, burning through each day with my sole purpose being to get through the next one even faster. Saturday is the constantly re-setting goal, and not for the old joys of the weekend. Saturday is the one day when I find myself free of responsibility, and can indulge in the sort of activities that will make that day go by even faster than any other, and will likely keep me unconscious for the better part of the next.
When I was a kid, my father gave me the poster version of "Boulevard of Broken Dreams", with James Dean walking lonely, somberly, down an empty, rain-drenched road. I didn't like it then, and wasn't too sad to leave it adorning my father's walls. On Sunday mornings though, through roads and alleys thousands of miles away from home, that's how I find myself.
I guess I'm finally tired of being away from friends and family. There's probably tons of people to meet still, but I can't bring myself to do so as I once did, for the simple reason that I'm being forced to. "Friends" here are the people who you can depend on to look after you when you start losing grips with reality and responsibility--and those who are willing to go pint for pint with you when that's not a factor.
There's a nice girl I know, who I can barely communicate with, but will keep me away from the madness of a daily party with--of all things--a game of pool or darts. But she'll be gone soon enough; that much she could spell out for me. And there's another, who wants nothing more than for us to be able to meet on Saturdays--she free from her university, myself from the military--so we can dance and cavort until the sun rises. But it's like reverse Cinderella in this case. Anything goes in a dance club, but very few want to be seen with a guy whose hair even hints of military (and mine's not even short!) when the dawn breaks.
With nine months to go before I can see those dear to me again, sunlight is becoming a nigh-forgotten, rare pleasure in this mist-ruled land. The fumes released by offal-fueled fields and the tunnels under my weekend-visit metropolis overwhelm my senses.
Goodnight world.
ericamarie