Sorry Mom, Sorry God.

Electric madness hums inside my skull while I try and push the pillow down over my face. A small cut on the inside of my cheek keeps my tongue occupied while I struggle to remember what exactly is going on. This is my Saturday morning, waking up more intoxicated than most people get during the night. A strange sentence taunts me, floating around my thoughts like jellyfish in the ocean, jumbled words. Say what? And who? Fuck, why is this fire alarm still going off?

I woke up to the sound of the alarm, at first I thought my own slumber had caused it, some inane reasoning to a bleating bell – the sound of hatred personified in alert mode. I’m chugging water like a champion runner right now in my pitiful attempt to regain sobriety long enough to write down what I need to. What am I writing about though…Shit.

The aforementioned couple, Mark and Sharron, they had to wait an extra day for plane parts or plane ability or something. The music I’m blasting right now, it’s loud enough for the cops to come, but it isn’t nearly loud enough to shut out that horrible hum of electric which has been cycling through my mind since about 0900 this morning. I’m not sure who set off the fire alarm, but we’ve had enough in the barracks for me to know that the correct response isn’t to leave your room and go stand outside. It’s to tape your alarm shut so that it won’t sound off and to try and sleep through it. Fifteen minutes after the first angry yell of the machine you can hear sirens. Twenty minutes after it begins, it’s over. But it’s the longest twenty minutes you’ll ever have as a drunkard, suffering random pitched abuse from an inanimate member of society who for some reason this morning hates you. Back to point though.

This is the most “army” I can ever really get. Lying in bed, borderline suffocating myself to ignore the warning of impeding doom – a sacrifice for sleep. Waking up intoxicated because, well, we are a drinking society. And if you doubt that, just travel to any army town. Everyone there can attest to our rowdiness, our alcoholism. Our party lifestyle. Joining the army was, for me, a simple choice because it was an extension of college. Another way to delay making a life decision? Absolutely. But wasn’t it also a choice to attend what can easily be marketed as the biggest party school on the planet? You’re fucking right it was.

And I’d love to say that I was the only one this weekend who for whatever reason was out partying like a rock star. But I’m not alone in this. We all do it, every night. Some more than others, but go, find a military base, and smash through the walls of a house Kool-Aid style and see for yourself. We’re drinking, consistently, because the daytime is such a bore or pain or bitch that the nighttime has to be interesting. I mean, if your every day was spent training and training and doing nothing which seemed important, than wouldn’t your every night have to be wonderful for you to keep going on?

And they are wonderful in a way. You might be shit during the day, but you can be the shit during the night. And that’s the beauty of the military. Anything you do, anyone you are, you’re just like everyone else in your lifestyle. You can run to the military liquor store and see Colonels and Privates alike buying 40’s of Old E if you look hard enough. I’d say you could see Generals stocking up on MD 20/20, but they have aids to run and get it for them. Still though, a drink is a drink.