Ferr-ahhh-city: Journal 10/09/06
I really hate writing about dreams. Or rather, I hate reading about other people’s dreams which makes me imagine how boring my own may seem to other people. But I may start to pay more attention to the ones I’m sure to have. I just know that once I’m back home I’m going to get myself so wrapped up in goals… I see myself attacking life with so much ferocity that I may be blinded to underlying emotions. And those underlying emotions seem to come out much clearer in the subconscious.
Ferocity. Yes. I really like that word. Ferr-ahhh-city.
My whole life I’ve always felt like I was playing catch-up. For my age, I certainly wonder what has kept me so far behind everyone else.  I always told myself that perhaps I just needed more time to ferment. I’ve always been the last one to catch on to fashion or dating or self-confidence. A late bloomer if you will.Â
I think that may have been part of the reason the last year in Iraq had felt so irritating at times. The whole “waste of time†feeling. I’m starting to understand how untrue that is now. It’s not a matter of who does what first…   rather that they do anything fulfilling in their life at all.
So far the only plan I have when I return home is this:
Don’t waste a moment.Â
I wanna attack everything no matter how small or large. Walking, drinking, writing, breathing, talking, or just watching. Of course I have other more solid plans and goals. Traveling and school. Music and writing.
But I think the most important thing is my list of “Don’t Do Goalsâ€. Such as:
Don’t sleep all day.
Don’t watch stupid fucking T.V. till my brain rots out of my ears.
Don’t hold back feelings for someone.
Don’t underestimate myself.
Right. So, self-help blog aside…Â
Go Bears! What a slaughter they had last night! I was finally able to watch a game out here on the Armed Forces Network.  It seriously made my week. It was a home game so they flashed blimp shots of Soldier Field, Grant Park, LSD, and the Chicago skyline. It was already 8pm Iraq time when the game came on, but it was a gorgeous sunny Chicago Sunday on television. We all shed little fake tears right before the commercial breaks when they showed the live shots of the city. Any other time and it may have been much sadder, but knowing we’re soooo close to being home, it was more joyful to see than depressing.Â
When the Bears were up 30-0, AFN changed to another shitty game. Apparently someone in the network decided it was a blowout (which it was) and switched to a mediocre game that had close scores.
My Dad has advised me that the weekend I’m supposed to be home is a bye week for the Bears. Which means the NEXT weekend I’m expecting a mass of people somewhere… anywhere… to drink REAL beer (none of this near beer shit they give us in Iraq) so we can yell and holler at the screen like crazy people.
SPC Gibbs, Out.
Caution: If you’re annoyed at reading other people’s dreams (as I am) then just skip this last part.
Key points from my dream last night:
I was shot 12 times in the stomach. They healed but I was still sore.
E brought her parents to me. My mother was there too. Neither mothers talked to each other.
B came by and ignored my wounds. Then I showed her the scars on my stomach and she hugged me.
E’s mother finally spoke to me and said, “My name is Kira Norice.â€Â Then left for Israel. Both E and I were upset that no one was talking with each other.
I woke up to faux gunshot pains in my tummy.
The End.
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