Squating Barcelona and General Malarkey

This mix of retrospect and diary entries

03.01.2010

   The French Foreign Legion had been single-handily the poorest decision of my life. How I had ever focused myself on traveling 6000 miles to be abused by sadists and mongoloids in a different language is beyond explanation. By this point I was 7 months into a snowballing European disaster that had me cutting trees for gypsies, freezing to death in a trailer, and sleeping on scaffolding. Any further problems would have to chalked up to the order of the universe that was consistently planting rose beds next to the shit I was destined to slip in.

  Getting out of the Legion felt much like being discharged from the hospital or jail. The processing took about 4 hours filled with signing documents, nervous eating, and smoking what cigarettes we had left. The last step was to return our intake property. When they handed back my boots, I wanted to vomit. These were the property of that bastard Mad Marco and were a sad looking lump of leather impregnated with the essence of sheep shit and sweat. Those damn boot had covered my feet while they froze to the ground for the last 4 months and wanted to see them and the memories of that hell burn out of existence. The laces had been replaced with OD Green 550 Para-cord after a dog had twice chewed them off while I slept. I removed the laces and put them in my pocket (I still have them in my toiletry bag). The recruit helpers were confused why I trying to give back the boots. They called over a large black Corporal. 

"Qui!"

"Poubelle.....poubelle.....pa bon"

He through them over his shoulder and walked away.

  

"Life is shit, I smoke another Gauloises"

   Camille is the best!