John to Heather (Me):
Hey baby. I miss you. I know I’m lucky to be stationed in one spot, but sometimes deployment feels like it takes forever. I can’t wait to be on leave in a few weeks. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you or anyone back home. Getting pics in my email doesn’t really count.
It’s pretty boring here. I have watch duty a lot, which is mostly just walking around with a gun and looking at stuff to make sure nobody tries to fuck anything up. I don’t think anything’s going to happen, but the lieutenant keeps talking about the rebel insurgents. You maybe heard about some trouble a few weeks ago, but that was like light years away from us. We hardly ever see anybody here, period. The only civilians are contractors and all they care about is getting paid.
Baby, I can’t wait to come home and see you. I have a ring picked out. I found it online so I don’t know if it fits, but I guess you can try that stuff on and they’ll make it fit, right? Some of the guys here keep talking about how they want to get home and fuck their girlfriends and so do I, but I mostly just want to be with you in person and hear your voice. I miss you and love you so much.
I try to think about that all the time but I’m sick of being this far away and looking for somebody nobody’s been able to find for all these years. This guy is supposed to be from this desert, right, and he’s hiding out somewhere in all this? If the people in the next village don’t know who he is, how are we supposed to know? And if nobody ever sees him, how do they all know he can shoot a rat from 300 yards away or drive better than anybody else? It just pisses me off the way him and his friends keep sending all those video transmissions about blowing shit up before and how they can do it again. Those make me want to find him and beat his scrawny ass. And it’s not just him, it’s all these people taking his side, like they’re some damn alliance or something. Like they’re something more than a bunch of rednecks from some dusty desert with a fucked up idea of God’s power. You hear people say “glass parking lot” out here and it starts to sound like a good idea.
I’m sorry. I just get frustrated out here. There’s nothing to do but walk around and talk to the same people. All the doors here look the same. I don’t know how people just pick them at random. Half the time I don’t even know where to find my bunk. I miss you. I miss my dog. I even miss my mom.
But I know I’m here for a reason and I want to get the job done. Someone has to rebuild this place. Those wackjobs did blow it up once, but it’s supposed to be stronger than it was before. Oh yeah, guess what? The Commander In Chief is coming to visit and everyone’s hauling ass to get everything done. I’m supposed to stand guard when he gets here. Just stand there all straight with my gun. I hope I don’t have to chase around any weirdos who get the bright idea to crash the party. My armor’s getting fixed up right now. My helmet’s going to be so white and polished he can see himself in it.
Love you, baby. I’ll come home soon. Remember those wanted posters – maybe someday everyone at home will know my name as the guy who caught Skywalker.
I can’t wait to get off this Death Star.
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