Also, I miss my combat boots.
Never fought in a war - not like that anyway
or killed anyone, though I've thought about it.
Hard not to when the killbox glows every night with pictures of guns and angry red-faced republicans doing the two-step double-speak.
So I've thought about it, sure. Maybe someday I could stick a knife in some poor fools neck and watch them bleed out onto the ground, dirt mixing with blood mixing with grass mixing with bugs, insects, centipedes. They have hundreds of legs I hear.
But in my foxhole, underneath the grass - looking up from the inside, seeing the roots hanging down - I know it's not in me. Fuckers could push me as hard as they want to,
I still feel bad when I step on an ant.