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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
I guess this could be considered a blog. Sort of a journal I'm writing more for myself than anyone else, as I honestly doubt many will find this.

Submitted: February 08, 2016

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Submitted: February 08, 2016



Who am I? I guess that's the question isn't it? What we all seek inside ourselves. I thought I knew once. No it seems I'm just as lost as ever. I'm not an adult. I have lost my confidence. I am but a terrified child again. I am Wulfgang Vaughan and I was once a boy who lived without family and I was a dreamer. Now I'm just a Marine, a welder exactly and like the rest of my battalion I hate my life. The only difference between me and the rest is that they drink their sorrows away and I, I write useless music every night and think up reasons not to kill myself. Today I was talking to one of my Corporals today about this concept. Sort of an online blog that's more of a journal. He told me that the whole world would read my story just to laugh at me. Laugh at my misery. I honestly doubt anyone will even read it but if you do so stumble upon it or if somehow this did make it big. Laugh it up. It's not like your the first anyway. Maybe this whole woe as me thing is too cliche, already getting old. But i find myself needing to write out the crazy. The military is an interesting place to live and exceedingly difficult to explain. Everything is a joke, but only half a joke. We joke about suicide, about leaving, about anything, anything to take your mind off the suck. People often ask me what it is I can't stand about the Marines and why I don't want to reenlist and I find it difficult to explain. Everything sucks. At work I only do my job 20% of the time and the rest is stupid menial tasks or paperwork. Most of the people in charge of you are just assholes, and they will take every oppurtunity to demean you and treat you like shit without it being obvious. I have no control over my life. I will be were I'm asked, whenever I'm asked and do whatever I'm told. People can come into my 15x15 concrete room and do whatever they want with me. You eat what they give you, sleep when they let you and work as long as they order you. But, the worst part is, and I guess this is where it starts getting less mopey, I'm still a dreamer.

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