3 thoughts on ““A Yasmin-inspired Lovestory”

    • Perhaps institutionalized? There once was a Navy doctor, resplendent in his newly creased casualness of uniform my first morning back in “The World” at Jacksonville U. S.Naval Hospital upon my being flown all day from Anchorage, Alaska, throughout The South to land, finally, at J-Town sickplace after four or five stabilizing days at USNH Yokohama, Honshu, Japan after a bit more than a week at 95th Mobile Air Surgical Evacuation Hospital at China Beach, Quang Nam, Republic of South Vietnam who looked at me as I tried to decide whether to eat the buttered toast first or add some grape jelly of pineapple preserves, drink – no, quaff! mightily! – ice cold whiter-than-white milk, in a tall glass not less! or swim a fork through some beautifully prepared over-well, yolks-broken eggs with the better parts of pig seasoned perfectly and some usually eschewed grits with an iceberg of butter amidst a pepper-ridge in the middle (and I never eat grits, though in Italy and high-falutin parts of The USofA such dish is called Polenta and instead of then-sixty-five cents and now $1.35 is sold for upwards of 8-to-15 dollars, more if you add chantarelles and baby peas and mushrooms and a shredding of Parmesan and for the first cooking minutes used white wine vice just water) and he said, “You look so sad. Mind telling me why?”
      “Wanted waffles.”

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      • Oops…hit wrong key.
        Yup! He was a pshrink. They were running out of combat casualties and this was not the first time I was on parade: the funny Marine with wounds on. I was among but five total wounded Americans in Vietnam December 9, 1970. And all four others were with me that night. Yet I was the only one hospitalized: see, Yassy, I told you – Institutionalized. And I fooled them into well and they let me go. Now you must promise not to tell a soul I am out, about and free from social restraint. Promise? Oh, hell. Just make sure I get a glass of milk before the butterfly nets, okay?

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