Here's that last letter I sent:
Dear Efficient Uses of Space,
The Crucible was alright. Some parts were fun. The whole thing was absolutely filthy. A lot of crawling in the dirt. My clothes and body were caked in mud-sweat, or sweat-mud, and there was sand all up in my intestines. My boogers and spit looked like Hershey's Syrup. It was a little salty.
The Reaper is this big hill we climb at the end. It's supposed to be this huge event in boot camp, the culminating event that makes us Marines. It might have been the most anticlimactic half hour of my life. I was just strolling up that bitch (I would have been whistling if I knew how), wondering when the hard part was coming up, until I noticed everyone around me was struggling to press on. My legs are effing powerful. Anyone who's seen my freaky misshapen body will believe me about that, as well as my awful pull-up performance.
Right now I'm going to wait for breakfast, then wait for lunch, then dinner, repeat that six times, and then get the hell out of here.