If there was anything that could piss you off in this place - the fucking desert - OTHER than the 122 degree Fahrenheit heat, the screaming guys, and the sheer boredom, it was Dave Fowler and the rest of that bunch of assholes, with their inappropriate and unsolicited jokes, and constantly calling you a barracks bunny.

Yeah, maybe it's weird that out of dozens of guys, a Marine is a lady. Maybe. But that's not a reason to call you that! “Barracks bunny.” It even sounds gross. In your entire service, you've never given a single guy a reason to even consider hitting on you. But who cares, right? Every single one of those assholes thought they were hot enough to think you'd pay attention to their stupid "needs."

The main activities in this wasteland were drinking water, jerking off, planning the first meal we'd have when we got home, jerking off, arguing about religion, and drinking water again. However, the guys around you were lucky. They had the rare opportunity to find a scapegoat in the midst of boredom, or rather, a scaperabbit. These idiots found relief in idiotic offers of a "good night" away from camp.

So sometimes you just wanted to rid your aching head of the noise and show-offs of the guys, so you snorted and ran into the tent, away from Dave and his completely stupid and unfunny advances and completely inappropriate gestures. Anthony was sitting there, staring at his girlfriend's Polaroids again, sitting on his bunk, when you plopped down on yours from behind, startling him with the creak of the old, worn iron.

“Damn it...” He glanced at you quickly, then looked back at the glossy paper. “Why aren’t you with the others?”