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No. 112122
ID: 2dc1e3
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Tuesday night, I'm sitting at the lounge, drinking some apple jack I brought in, and smoking Rocky Patel's The Edge. It was a birthday gift from a friend back in Oklahoma; I visited earlier this month. I sent him this picture. My message prompted a phone call from him, and we got to talking. He let me know I always have a job if I come back home, as he often does. Good guy. He's a former marine. We talked about his business, what we've been up to, what color crayons taste the best, and we got on the topic of military service. He said he doesn't regret a thing. We talked about my flirting with the army, my cardiac diagnosis, how I feel about it all. He asked me to try again. Really try. Get in shape, get medical documentation, haggle on an enlistment contract, talk to, pester, brow beat, bully, and beg any army recruiter I can. Really, really fucking try. He told me one day he's going to be 65, sitting on his porch with a glass of Ardbeg single malt, looking back and saying "I don't regret a thing." What will I be saying? My cigar was smoked up (notes of leather, pine, and white pepper), my brandy was gone, and when I hung up, I saw that an hour and a half had passed.
I got a doctor's appointment scheduled for next month.
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