Once the chains were broken, I became a ghost. I signed out on terminal leave so that I could focus solely on clearing, without the burden of PT against my will, or showing up to work at 6:30 AM. Yeah, that's civilian time, kids. Get used to it. I am.
I show up at the crack of noon, put the uniform on, and hunt down signatures and stamps and go-aheads with predatorial desire.
Briefings and briefings. A thousand copies of everything. They tell you to make seven copies, make seven hundred.
S-1 lost my leave packet. They didn't have it at Staff Duty. No sweat, I tell them. I pull out one of my umpteen copies. You can have this one. They sign it, and I slaughter every last walking tree from Lord of the Rings to make enough copies to thoroughly cover my ass.
Briefings. Briefings. Appointments. Drop gear off to have it laundered. Pity they won't launder EVERYTHING, but they clean a good chunk of it, less for me to do. Turning in gear will be a nightmare, a post all of its own.
And now I'm hunting signatures again. Yanking myself free from spiderwebs one thread at a time. This shit'll wear you out. Guess I'll have to sleep in til nine again. Life's rough when you're getting out. So rough. Doing things on your own terms? That's fuckin' scary, man! This is too much freedom! I need my inhaler!
I charged through an entire guantlet of signature hunting, only four remain. Finance and Final Out are to be done last. S-1 and CIF. CIF is the bitch. CIF is where I'm going next. CIF is where I'm going to learn to hate all over again.
I'm bringing $500.00 cash with me.