Operation: GTFO (Day 215)

Post Paris Depression

I'm not in Paris anymore.

I’m not in Paris anymore.

I’ve been back from leave for about 14 days now.  A commenter on Trip Advisor asked me how I was getting along with my “post-Paris depression.”  I think that is the exact disease from which I’m suffering.  With a little bit of I don’t give a shit-itis.  This is precisely what happened to me during the last deployment when I came back from R&R—my ability to care about anything went from 0 to -15.  I would say that I’m sitting at a solid -20.

Of course it did not help that my battle buddy went on leave the day I got back.  I swear to God, I never thought it humanly possible to miss somebody so much, and we ain’t family or in love!  It’s just sitting in this office for a week straight with these two lunatics just really wore on my nerves.  It’s lucky they do have conversation or I would have committed suicide.  It’s just that they have a lot of issues.  Sometimes I feel like I’m having a conversation with a schizophrenic and/or my grandfather.

I suffered through a set of meetings where I realized that I don’t actually like any of these people.  No, let me take that back.  I’ve known since jump I didn’t like these people.  I think I realized how intensely I don’t like these people.  I remarked to Higher that I found it amazing his ability to deal with all these personalities.  I find it taxing to work with people I consider to be idiots.  He has loads more experience than I do, and maybe one day when I grow up I’ll learn how to function in a society full of buffoons.

The face you make when someone asks you to sit in on yet another meeting.

The face you make when someone asks you to sit in on yet another meeting.

In the last meeting, they thought I was taking notes.  Instead I was planning my post-deployment leave.  Thanks to PDRMA, I might get a week extra of leave.  An initial calculation puts me at 22 days.  I don’t believe anything until it’s in writing, so I’m going to assume I only have two weeks left.  I’m going to take a whirlwind tour of France and the UK.  I want to visit the Champagne region because I never got around to it during my initial leave.  Then I’m going to Paris again, then on to London for a week.

I already plotted out my entire itinerary based on 14 days.  I’m flying Space A into Ramstein and out of Mildenhall.  The only thing I really need are the dates.  Since there’s no way of actually knowing when the fuck I will be paroled from this misery, I will just have to wing it.  I figure I will have a better idea once I actually get on a plane.  Last time it only took me 2.5 days to escape Fort Hood.  It might be last minute and more expensive, but it is better than nothing.

It’s just giving me something to look forward.  For whatever reason going home is not enough of a motivator.  Maybe because there isn’t anything back there waiting for me, and I feel like it would be more of the same old-same old.  Really, I’m on the verge of just quitting everything and becoming one of these Bohemians that work their way around the world doing whatever the fuck they want.

I don't see what's wrong with this lifestyle.

I don’t see what’s wrong with this lifestyle.

I am going to take a page from my battle’s book and backpack—not in the traditional sense, though.  I’m too old for that.  But I might stay in a hostel in Paris because it’ll be so last minute, but when I get to London I’m doing my luxury route.  I’ll consider Scotland if I end up having these 20 days these people claim I’ll have.

Based on an arbitrary calculation I think I have nine more Sundays left.  I think this is the best way to think of it.  Higher said, “We have four paychecks left.”  Who the fuck wants to count dwindling paychecks?  Yeah, almost all of us are going back to jobs so it’s not like we won’t be getting paid ever again, but I can’t be like, “Four paychecks till I stop getting double paychecks.”  Someone else tried to count in hours.  Someone said, “Yeah, I did the calculation and it’s like 2100 more hours.”  I don’t know how accurate the calculation is but seriously, do you really want to count two-thousand, one-hundred, fifty-six hours, nineteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds?  Uh.  Nope.

Forget counting days too.  If I go with the rough estimate of nine weeks, then that’s like 63 days.  That’s still too much.  Nine Sundays sounds more reasonable and it doesn’t seem like a long time.

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