The more I look at life out of the combat zone, I realize I miss the clarity of purpose that made my life so much more straightforward. Whether I'm ready to deal with the unbelievably corrosive aspects to my personality that is the price of doing that remains to be seen. It's been two and a half years since coming out of the combat zone and my estrangement from much of what I call home is still pretty goddamn palpable. Either that or it's the same kind of generalized anger at my lost youth that I described last week.
It could also be because it's x-moose season and as usual, I'm on the fucking rag every x-moose. My wife is an x-mas True Believer. I am the ultimate x-moose Heretic, if only because I've associated x-moose with earth-shattering heartbreak (and not entirely mine) on a number of occasions. So, to quote my favorite seasonal song, "
Fuck Christmas."
"Fuck 'em, he decided.
Just fuck 'em.
Fuck everybody who doesn't come out here and do this."
James Webb, Fields of Fire
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