About twenty minutes ago we had our first monthly review. I had high hopes that the worst of our group would be called out. They were not.
I was pretty much passed by. Mostly because I don’t get into too much trouble. They did say that I need to challenge myself and run more. To do that, I’m going to run on my off day, to see if I can build my stamina. I’ve made a lot of progress since I was locked up nine months ago, but not enough.
I lost about two pounds and lost 1% body fat since I arrived here at boot camp. It’s a start. I can see in the mirror that I’m becoming muscular, toned. I must work harder. I will work harder.
30 days in boot camp and I can make my bed, iron nice creases into my khakis, and run farther than I ever thought I would. If you would have asked me two years ago if I would ever run two miles total in my lifetime, I would have said, “Hahahahahahahahaha.” You get the picture.
The point is, that I—we—are conquering the obstacles that seemed so daunting just a month ago. We’re even starting to get along. We still bicker, but what else could be expected, we live in the same room, shower, @&%$, and shave together.
My mother brought up a man named Kermit. She didn’t include his last name or real first name but when I said them in my head, I became angry, which rarely happens.
Yes, I got to see the Red’s [baseball team] win the 1990 World Series right in front of my eyes. It was cool as hell. But that was probably the only highlight of that period of my life.
I remember where I was standing, on the back porch of our green apartment building on Dayton Avenue when she told me I had a brother.
Let that simmer.
The third of four places we moved to in one year after the Kermit debacle.
In that same apartment, I remember getting a dog. He was a sheltie, and I named him Flash. He was…special. Maybe flat out retarded. And one time oh god it hurts me still to think about it, he ate an entire box of giant chocolate bars I had to sell for a school fundraiser, foil wrappers and all.
I know I don’t remember the correct sequence of events, but I know this: he @&%$ everywhere. He @&%$ outside, he @&%$ on himself. He @&%$ on the piles of @&%$ that he had @&%$ on himself. That was just outside.
Hoping he was done, we brought him inside so he wouldn’t freeze to death. We shut him in the bathroom for the night, and when we opened the door in the morning, I will let my dear Mother take over from here because I am not allowed to use profanity in my writing. Holy flippiin crap. Nobody will ever see what we saw that morning.
[ANNE: I don’t care to elaborate on Vince’s dog story above. I am not a dog person, but I thought every boy ought to have one, right? Especially after what I had put Vince through with Kermit. I was wrong.
Vince says he rarely gets angry. Elsewhere in this blog, he writes about “anger coming off me like steam.” I wonder if he’s dulled his anger for years with chemicals, is just now experiencing it unfiltered, and doesn’t even recognize that?]