Three years ago I stood over the bodies of my squad mates. A building had just exploded, and I had sent my men in right before it happened.
In that blast we lost one of the finest men I have ever met.
BE had been married. A few weeks before his first baby was born he deployed. Within months we were shipping his remains back to his wife and baby girl.
According to some bitch at Toronto Children’s Aid, I am imaginary. That would mean that BE is imaginary, that his death was imaginary, that the pain and grief of his family is imaginary. That would mean that his daughter doesn’t have a hero for a father, that every night before she goes to bed she doesn’t care that her dad is not there to tuck her in and read her a bedtime story.
So I have some words for you:
Suck my imaginary dick.
Notes of an EGA 