Something borowed, for the day

ginmar is, for those who don't know, an articulate, cranky, obnoxious, insightful, friendly, literate, passionate, heartfelt, ironic, wry, romantic who also happens to be in the Army.

Today, from somewhere in Iraq, she posted the following The P-Word

All Y'all who don't read her, should read this.

How I've changed

I have decided I don't like other people's fireworks.

Silly, but true... the thing is I used to, back when they sounded, vaguely, like distant gunfire.

But my neighborhood seems fond of bigger bangs than that. The firecrackers, the whistling petes, the roman candles and the M-80s, those are all right... because they sound like distant gunfire, and that is comfortable; it reminds me of the MPs taking firing practice at 0630.

No, it's the ones that have real concussive power, the ones that send overpressure my way... not much overpressure but some. So far I've resisted the urge to plant my face in the freshly tilled earth of the corn and tomato field, but I have hugged my knees a couple of times, because some bastard has some bit of noisemaker that sounds, and feels, appallingly like a 60mm mortar round, and those are not fun.

It would be easier were I not all alone in the house. I'd call one of my buddies, but he's on his way back from visiting other buddies in Monterey, so beer, and the grill, and the questionable comforts of LJ, and similar distractions (because the Horses will want to be fed, and that ties me to the house, for at least another couple of hours.

I want a security blanket, but the one I want is not available, nor all that practical.