I’m writing from Reception Battalion, which is a week-long limbo-waiting-room before I descend into Basic Training. Most of my time is spent in long lines to process medical and administrative stuff, and if not there, I’m standing in formation for hours. With so much boredom teetering on torture, all the guys are begging to endure the pain of basic training. I try to deal with the anguish by remembering our good times, like the time you were using my feet as a trampoline, or the day we spent together on mini-honeymoon. I’ve been dying to hear your voice on the phone.
My fear of running has completely subsided. My new fear is how I’m going to cope with the reoccurring missing-attacks. I can’t even begin to explain how much I miss you and I love you.
To put aside my emotions, I want to touch on one specific theme of my training, rather than explain a million different themes. This letter’s theme is the unbelievable melodrama of men. I thought melodrama was something that mainly resided in the women. Out of the 60 man platoon, about one-third are wannabe alpha males that try to act out like a natural leader that can inspire us to be out best and utilize our fagfuck potential. These people will try to micromanage us every second about the dumbest crap - freaking out about the drill sergeant storming through the dorm, or telling people to put their canteen on the other left pocket, instead of the right pocket. Then the other one third of the platoon gets hyper-sensitive when being told what to do by a fellow peer. The other one third is fine. As far as demographics, you’ve got blacks from the hood, redneck and every other group you can think of.
Sweets, I love you so much. My writing creativity is shot because all I think about is you. I know this is rough for you too, but just remember your husband is always thinking about you.
I love you,