DEAR US ARMY: You owe me a tuna steak, and I don't want to hear that you have bigger things to worry about.

Dear sirs, captains, generals and what's-it's:
If you were going to push my boyfriend's ship date to basic up from Wednesday to Tuesday, some form of notification would have been greatly appreciated, and would have allowed us to have that fancy seafood goodbye dinner we had planned for tonight. Now he is leaving unprepared, and I have seen him for the last time till Christmas WITHOUT KNOWING IT. Had I known last night was his last night around till practically the new year, I probably would not have spent it web logging about my fecking undercracker collection.
But now that that's out of the way, I am free to spend my day wrapped up in blankets with greasy hair, eating frozen yogurt out of the container. This is the state in which I will be waiting for my apology, you love trampling BASTARDS.

Sincerely, Capt. J. Danger.
(P.S.- You should count your lucky-ass stars that I had the forethought to ask him for his Smith & Wesson key yesterday instead of tonight.)

Thankfully, the friendie-troops are coming together for me with promises of drunken debauchery, loft parties and veggie chili nights. I lurve them with the greatest of desperation.

No comments:

Post a Comment