The Frequency of Fuck

The frequency of my opportunities to fuck is inversely related to the frequency of my use of the word fuck. It's very strange. I reread my blog to observe the new year tradition of looking back over the past and I noticed that the longer I go without being able to fuck my husband, the more I say fuck. Coincidence? I think not. I think that this is just one bit of further proof that I am indeed sexually deprived and that my mind is slowly slipping ever further into the toilet bowl of life.

Seriously. In my first three posts, I use the word fuck, fucking, fucked, and other variations of this glorious word ONCE and only once. How the hell did I manage that? In the last three I've written, this most versatile of words makes TWENTY appearances! Now that is fucking phenomenal! Who knew that I had gone from being such a sweet little girl to being a cussing prodigy? I don't know whether I should be ashamed of myself or damned proud that I have achieved such a level of infantry foul-mouthed-ness.

Now that I've finished bashing my head into a wall from my depravity (or patting myself on the back, I haven't decided which) I have an actual point to make. Deployment is finally drawing to a fucking close. Plans are underway to get the boys home. Shit is moving along and packing should be commencing. THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO DECIDE THAT OPSEC IS NO LONGER IMPORTANT!!! It will not stop being important. When in doubt, keep your fucking mouth shut and for God's sake, don't post anything about homecoming on Facebook.

My hubby's first deployment, the Taliban found out about the homecoming flights and T's pilot had to take evasive measures when the flight was taking off to come home!! Fantastic. The man lives through deployment and then fucking dies on the airstrip trying to come back. How fucking fucked up would that have been? Thank God for crazy pilots who know their shit and an enemy with shitty aim.

My point is this: My use of the word fuck may have increased dramatically over the past year during this godforsaken deployment, but one thing has not changed: my love for and concern for those boys. And make no mistake: in the company or no, those are MY fucking boys. Maintain OPSEC from now until the moment he steps off the tarmac and you have him in your arms. Let's bring them home, ladies.

And then rape them. . .