Sock Diaries: 3/31/2013

"You're wasting your time if you don't go to Selection."

Honduras is probably the most interesting place a regular soldier could ever go. The other night, I found myself in a hotel room with a beautiful, half-naked (the bottom half) Honduran woman who could literally only say the words "hi" and "bye" in English. Needless to say, we didn't have any very deep conversations. The unit here is amazing, and the women around town are beautiful, and very subservient and eager to please. I have fun almost every day, and there hasn't been a day where the question "What the fuck is that?" hasn't crossed my mind.
So what is there to talk about today? Well, there is one aspect of Honduras that is best kept a secret, but it really does, well, baffle me, to say the least. The thing I will allow myself to speak on isn't the weird relationships of Americans on Americans, or the more interesting, but much more understandable relationships of Americans and Hondurans, it's not all the strange flirting and eye-balling, and rumors and constant partying and drinking. It was what I was told last night at the beginning of the party that the Special Forces guys were having. I mean the real special forces. Like the guys who "were never here". One of the bosses told me, after a long speech about what I was missing and how I'd be perfect for it, that "You're wasting your time if you don't go to Selection."
Special Forces Selection. Where the best of the best are molded. It's over a year of rigorous training, and special skills building that makes you not only one of the greatest weapons that breathes, but one of the most resourceful and capable humans with an American citizenship.
Everyday that I've woken up, since I was a small boy, I've wished that I would wake up in a world where superheroes kept the streets safe. And that I was one of those heroes. There hasn't been a day that's gone by where I've woken up and not wanted to open my closet to  reveal a rubber suit (or some kevlar-titanium-cotton blend) and a suit and tie, to go out to some menial job, just to don my secret identity when the sun went down. But that's not the world I live in. The closest I'll ever come to being a superhero, is through Selection.
But have you ever read the comic where Bruce Wayne wakes up the morning after he retires, goes in to a business meeting, hashes out some financial details, comes home to Damien Wayne and Talia al (Wayne?) and they have a nice family dinner and talk about their respective days, and Bruce reads Damien a bed time story, and goes into the bedroom with his wife Talia for a their "private" time?* No, because no one wants to hear about that. Mostly, because even in a comic book world, it's not likely to happen.
In the real world, there are bullets and deployments. In the real world, there are no sexy femme fatales with whom you have a strained, love-hate sexually tense relationship. There are angry men, crazed women, homicidal, suicidal, genocidal people. At the end of the day, you come home, you hang up your cape, and you hope you don't find your wife in bed with Bob who works at a cubicle for some shitty corporation who's funding the child soldiers and genocides that just made your past couple of weeks a (barely) living hell. Reality is where your cheating wife tells you that your emotionally neglected teenage daughter is pregnant, or your role model-less son is in jail, while you were out preventing some Nameless group of murderers from skinning some little girl alive. That's the reality. Once you're in the world of the real superheroes, the chances of you coming out of it without losing more of yourself than you were prepared for, are slimmer than the chances of you coming out at all.
So is that the direction I really want to go? Once I'm in, I can kiss my chances of a normal, quiet life goodbye. It's a line you can't uncross. Is that what I really want?

Perks of Being in Good Standing with your Psycho Ex-Girlfriend...

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Sock Diaries: 3/10/2013

I got rejected last night... I'm kind of bummed about it...
Okay, it wasn't a full on rejection. I got the whole "I've got a boyfriend," thing, but girls use that line so often you can never tell if they're actually telling the truth. Can we start a movement where women just outright say "I'm not interested, so stop flirting." That would, in all reality, be much more helpful. This girl was awesome, she was smart, funny, (I mean genuinely funny and entertaining) and mature... -ish. You can't really tell how mature someone is at a party, but it she said all the right things, and that counts for something, right?
Well, anyway, that kind of shit on my ego, along with most of the American women I've run into here. I don't really give too many shits about them, I'm just waiting on my pass to get out and see the much more attractive, and much, much more supportive local women of Honduras. The thing that's really bothering me is that the women that I find myself genuinely attracted to never share my interest. I realized a while ago that I just CANNOT do the whole young, immature girl thing anymore. The stupid questions, the stupid statements, and the stupid decisions have really lost their charm. Around every corner there's something stupid and unnecessary. The identity crises, the attempts at self validation through other's opinions, the fucking parental problems. I remember when I had parent problems. I was in high school. But it wasn't even in twelfth. I was in tenth grade when I had my last parental ANYTHING. That was SIX years ago. Why the fuck would I want, or need to hear that I have to miss out on something because you have a curfew, or your? I don't even...
... anyway That's where I am. I'm getting more and more convinced I'm going to end up one of those 40 year old creepy dudes hanging out at college bars until one day I see my daughter there and realize that it might be time to retire and die old and alone...

Sock Diaries: 3/3/2013

One of the hardest things about being a rolling stone like I am, isn't so much leaving people you love and like, as much as it is feeling left by people. In the past three years, I've been sent to six different places, and haven't stayed in any of them for one consecutive year. I've seen people come and go, and have come and gone myself. I've made brothers and sisters, loved and lost, but the thing that always sits with me the heaviest, is wondering who'll miss me when I'm gone.
I'm not as conceited as I pretend to be on the surface. I know not everybody loves Sonata, but I always wonder who does. I have my family that I know I can always rely on. My brothers, my blood brothers (there's a difference) and my mom. But how long does it take for someone to ask where I am when I'm not there? It's just one of those things that goes through my head while I'm thinking about all of the stuff I miss from home. And then I step outside and look at this beautiful Honduran skyline and remember that there will be way more to miss very soon.

Standards...

Everyone should have standards. Even I have standards, despite my track record. I feel that the best view of my actual standards can be best viewed by three women, two of them being my most recent endeavors, and one being (description omitted). One of the women, “The Norwegian” I like to call her, was just that: a fairly hot Norwegian woman. She was blonde haired, blue eyed, deliciously thick, and on her way out of the country in a few days. The next would be a girl whose ethnicity I can’t really call out as of yet… but she was pretty hot and definitely worth showing off. The final girl would be (description omitted). Fucking bombshell, hottest girl I’ve ever had sex with, and by far my favorite. I would…

But I digress. The problem with standards, is that too many factors need to come together for you to actually get what you want, depending on how high your standards are. My standards usually start at an all-time high, and then plummet like Enron stocks after about a month of chronic masturbation and potential missed opportunities for sex. At that point I’m just shooting in the dark for something two legs and a vagina (legs optional). Once I break that drought, usually with some kind of a stroke of luck (luck is not the name of my penis), I go back to chasing after super models and video vixens and foreign dignitaries. The reality of it is that standards aren’t this solid line that can and will never be crossed broken or bent. That most important part is figuring out what you won’t do, and not as much what you want to do.

People of our generation (in America) have such a warped view on standards that they generally have no idea what the will and won’t do until someone famous tells them what’s okay. Everybody wants celebrities to tell them whether or not it’s okay to forgive an abusive boyfriend. Or if it’s okay to stop wearing super baggy pants and start buying them at least 10 sizes too small. Or if  it’s okay to be “different” like everyone else, and start wearing lenseless glasses and leopard print jackets. Or if anyone should care anything at all about trying to save money to get a car they can actually afford, and clothes that fit and maybe a retirement plan… and maybe a career to retire from. If anyone would actually set their own standards, they might have a chance to see when they’re being made to look like idiots. It’s none of your business if Rihanna wants to forgive Chris Brown. If your standards are “I will not forgive a man who abuses a woman” then you just might be able to make up your own damn mind about your own damn life. Maybe if you decided “I will never wear pants that I have to sag below my ass in order for them to touch my shoes” then maybe you might not be incapable of getting an erection right now. Maybe if you decide that “Hey, I really like fat chicks man. Maybe you should say “I’ll never leave the house without a condom. Just saying…

It’s really a lot about that whole “stand for something-fall for anything” shtick. You gotta know when to bottom out. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself balls deep in a threesome with two Thai tranny/prostitutes, with no condom, because they told you they were on the pill, and you’re going to realize it’s too late. Your condom is in your pants and your pants are on the floor. And then there’s no going back.