Boys, Boys, Boys (In the genre of Lady GaGa)

My hands are cut and bleeding from the night before. I can't open doors, carry food, or switch the light on. All necessary things to continue living. Metaphorically, of course.

Following a discourse with the Italian and Welsh components of the infantry, I equiped myself with the German resitance fighters trained in hand-to-hand combat. I even pulled out the womanly gusto, brand name "Bitch Slap" and shined up that beauty. It's on loan from the Italians, but I figure I can use it without fear of of infringing on its usage ability. Ireland had, as of this morning, yet to feel my rage. Insert "The Foggy Dew" here. Thus, with these armaments prepared, I went in for the kill and sent a message to the enemy, forcing it to make the next move. Response was quick, and soon I was marching forth to the banks of 59C, having dispatched my supporting flanks. Upon disembarking from our ships, the local inhabitants seemed calm, if quite tired. Following the amount of inebriated they left in last night, I was not surprised. Having seen all that I have, it becomes difficult to surprise me anymore. That happens to veterans. We, at first, were welcomed right into the natives camp, which was surprisingly tidy, considering scouting reports we usually received. They gave us reports of certain employed women sweeping through the simple abode of the natives and cleaning anythign they saw fit. This is not an uncommon practice for the area, but for this particular locale it seemed quite abnormal. The natives in this dwelling often repulse the so-called 'cleaning-ladies' as they are frightened by them. Continuing on our campaign, I pushed rapidly forward with a frontal assault which left the remaining troops mildly battered. Luckily, I was straightforward and began my attack by calming my troops and then dispatching them. I was told once that cold anger can be used, whereas hot anger just boils over and consumes you. This static worked remarkably well, and the enemy did not simply barricade themselves into their bunkers. I drew them out enough to have a good go at them. Following the first few minutes of pitched battle, staying calm, I dispatched another round of troops to attack the flanks of the enemy's army. This they rebuked with a sudden and surprising defense I had been expecting, but I employed the heavy artillery instead, in a methphorical rain of fire smashed his retreat. It ended up successful, though not without some severe trauma to my own troops concerning their psychological health. ( In layman's terms. I yelled at my boyfriend today. And I bit off all my nails whilst doing so. It wasn't a yell, actually. Because I knew he wouldn't respond well to me getting loudly angry at him. Although I was screaming, nearly, at the Italians earlier.)

So really today: my heart hurts, mt head aches, my hands are scratched and filled with prickles, my legs are also scratched up and bleeding, and my back hurts tremendously. I wish for a backrub. I wish for a cuddle. I wish for the sun to come out again.