I am so tired of this place.
This is the result of my childlike imagination. My work place (a thrift store) is filled with a random variety of donations. Every now and then we’ll get a treasure to take home, props for photos like this one, or used underwear. Ah, the joys of working at a place that some people think is just a trash can in a building.
Where I come from, family is everything. We go beyond just trees. We are vines, spreading out over everything, taking outsiders in as we grow along. If you’re a friend, local or foreign, you are family. And ties with blood relatives are just as strong as new family members we take in.
As well as good company, there is always one thing that you’ll find in our midst…FOOD. There is one thing I can always be sure of and that is that I will never go hungry. My family wouldn’t allow it.
Even thousands of miles away from our island, its natives find each other with surprising ease. And we never need a reason to gather for a feast.
Ah, life. You sneaky bitch. And just like the weather, my plans change. But this change is exhilarating! Exciting! Fucking scary! And a little too good to be true.
Instead of retreating, kicking and screaming, to my island hideaway (which really isn’t one), I’ve decided to take a leap of pure guts and gore. I will leave behind all comfort with a stateside relocation that will either make or break me.
But that’s not for another four months or so. Between now and then, I need to make some moolah for the impending journey to solitude and redemption. And in the spirit of making money, I’m planning a trip to Rome and Naples. Alone.
Basic Combat Training major rule: always have a buddy. That one didn’t stick too well with me. Because I am probably taking this (expensive) trip alone. That is, if I can get past planning every minute detail and into purchasing.
And yes, I went through BCT for the Army, but not without consequence. Literally. I left my little (beautiful) island to live in a white man’s land. Please don’t take offense. I grew up in a place where a white man was automatically assumed to be in some branch of the military. And most of the ones we encountered were loud, obnoxious, and ignorant. Except my father (he has no military background, nor is he loud, obnoxious, or ignorant). He is half white. And the best man I know. I know people say that a lot about their fathers, but I am extremely blessed to have him as my father.
But anyway, the night I left for basic…that was the night my heart broke. A story for another time. By the time I boarded my plane, I had been up for 74 hours. I knew I was not in the best shape leaving, but arriving in basic I realized I was in terrible shape! I eventually got stress fractures in both feet. One healed up, but the other got worse. I got through a fourth of the training okay, and the rest of the way was horrible. Walking was painful, marching left my feet swollen, and ruck marches were a total nightmare. But I graduated. That was an incredible moment for me. Walking across that stage, even with a clunky and conspicuous boot on. I felt such pride for what I had accomplished. And then, I took all that and flushed it down the toilet.
So here I am, starting over. Ugh.