I'm in the Army Now... Not!

A few days ago I got my military ID - the thing they give you after you've served - or, as in my case, after you've jumped through the hoops in order not to serve. I feel pretty ugly about it all. In all honesty, I'm most probably legally not fit to be drafted. The thing is they don't give a damn unless you're "smart", which might mean, for example, that you live in Moscow and your father gets his paychecks on a regular basis. Unfortunately, over 90% of Russian kids don't meet the criterion and face a solid chance to get "damaged", both externally (might be fatal) and internally.

By 2007 I grew a faint sense of detachment from my flesh, enough to attempt to fight the pervasive fear of a guy on the verge of being drafted as a private. Sometimes I thought the service will help me discover myself in the ways, which evade us in our urban(e)ly safe settings. Yet I was sure I wasn't ready for it.

Life's ironic. Usually, safety has little to do with a piece of paper. We might get into a war, or a thousand of less romantic things might happen - each of which might in its own, intricate way, put me right into the service in a blink of an eye. Yet for now, I can afford to think about it in a rather hypothetical, philosophical humor.

From a (personally) religious point of view, I accepted it as a guilty gift. I'm trying to be close to people, using this "close to people" excuse in my wickedness, and yet I asked for an anti-egalitarian shield, and I got it. Yes, I'm sorry about it, but I don't pray God to take the shield back just yet.

Anyway, I was reluctant to write about this, preferring the side of procrastination to openness, as usual. The thing that pushed me over is that just a few minutes ago, MyFather? , in his ever-astonishing genius, was arrogant enough to mention that my godless soul should make an atonement for the sin we've committed; that although I never asked him for help in this matter, and the sin might have been mostly his, I'm his son, and sons pay for the sins of their parents. In my turn, in my ever-persistent evilness, I was arrogant enough to return the favor by mentioning that he was just having another bout of talking-out-of-his-ass, and that he should know better than not to mind his own consciousness. Yet, apparently, he thought that during our 2-minute conversation, he unloaded some stones off his soul onto mine, which made him feel better. I couldn't be more happy for him.

Looks like my angry indignation enabled me to finish this freaking post

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