Sunday, December 13, 2009

I'm all settled at my FOB. I have an address and a room and a bed. We go on missions at least once a day. I get time to go for a run around the helio-pad sometimes. I get at least one meal a day. Its not that bad. Its not that good either. But then again what is?

Its cold here. Not freezing, just cold. And sometimes the wind blows and it makes me think of December in NoVA.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Choose Life?

I had a debate with Scott the other night at dinner. It was about the Zombie Apocolypse. I was saying how fucked we'd be if it came while we were in the Army. (This is due to the military's painfully slow reaction to any event previously unplanned for.) I said that this FOB would go to hell in minutes and "Zach" would be crawling over the T-walls in no time and we'd be dead within the hour. Scott claimed he would not.

See his plan involves grabbing some ammo and getting the fuck outta dodge. Mine involves getting ammo, standing on the wall and being torn apart by zombies.

I find Scott's plan morally reprehensible. Why? What will dying on the wall acomplish? Admittidely not much, if anything, other than peace of mind for myself. It might just be me, but I don't think you should run from an enemy when running and staying to fight end in the same result.

I, unlike many of my peers, have no wish to live in a post-apocolyptic world. I like sleeping in a bed and hot food. I like electricity and Facebook. I like getting drunk and playing frisbee. I like sex and music and movies and my friends not dying. But most people, when they imagine the Z.A. gloss over those parts. The think how great it would be to have the world as a playground, forgetting that it would be devoid of the things they love best and full of terrible apparitions that serve only to remind them of what has been lost. Not to mention a vast majority of them have few, if any, of the skills needed to survive even a week once everything goes to shit.

So Scott et al. can flee to the hills to fight another day, but I plan on buying my farm with my machine gun in hand, screaming like a madman as they tear me limb from limb.