On To Bigger, Better Things: The Struggle Begins | iHateTheUSMC
Like many a soon-to-be-separating Devil Dogs, in the early winter of 2005 I was all too ready to shed my green, amphibian skin and horrible indentured servitude. The transition assistance classes required by the Corps for all separating Marines were thorough enough, and I had a coverletter/resume/thanksbiatchletter combination that looked pretty damned professional. My final physical was cleared, noting my exposure to CS and asbestos, a fucked up knee, and some hearing loss. My terminal leave was approved and worked out so that I could pick up my walking papers at 0830 on my motherfucking birthday. It was the most content I had been in...well, years. The sad part about that sentence is the fact that I had to use the word "content" because I was normally in a state mentally in which I hated almost every second of my life. At the time, I never realized how goddamned awful it was to fully accept being treated like a stupid, useless child, and for no reason other than it had been