I'm honestly not sure what the goal of this post is, nor how well I can still form a grammatically correct sentence after the reduction of multisyllabic words in my vocabulary (and steep increase in my five letter word vocabulary) that I underwent in Army basic training. Including reception, it had been more than 11 weeks since I had gone fishing. Although based on how long the days felt, one would think that all that army funding that certainly wasn't allocated towards our crappy hand-me-down gear, was used to build a time lengthening device. Not having anything to read actually helped mitigate the pain of being exposed to information about the newest Rapala I was missing,and through some amazing act of willpower, which most likely entailed more laziness and a deep yearning to hear music than actual willpower, for the thirty minutes we usually were given our phones a week if we were perfect, model little G.I Joe's, I managed to force myself away from this website. Being as Bass Resource is so laden with nostalgia of all the fishing gear I left behind that when I close my eyes I can almost smell the sweet (to use this term lightly) fragrance of Powerbait and can nearly feel a treble hook caught in my hand...or that one time, as a child, that my back cast went to far and almost tore more than my shorts. Luckily I knew that pain probably meant I shouldn't cast forward.
Anyway, I'm now far away for Fort Sill Oklahoma and the entertaining artillery strikes that I know would have been both my saving grace and biggest antagonist in my fishing adventures, should I have had the opportunity to go fishing. It would be my salvation for the convenience of providing me with an excuse as to why the fish are spooked, due giant HEAT rounds that I can even feel the shockwave from, and my most extreme annoyance for the frustrated fits of profanity laden, boot stomping that I would have felt justified in executing, being that I could blame artillerymen,that would actually be the thing terrifying bass...it's a vicious cycle. Now I am at fort Huachuca Arizona, at AIT, and in a few weeks I will be afforded the freedom to do such things as go fishing or hunting, and though you can lease the gear to do so from a sportsman center, my noble pride...and complete inability to notice or catch the money flying out of my wallet at light speed as I walk through a Cabela's convincing myself with the fervor of a drug addict or a priest that I need this or that bait to live virtuously, laden with the burden of a massive stringer of bass (about which I will be exceptionally humble of course.) Simply put, it would seem that I have lost the ability to fathom what it feels like to have a fat bass in my hand, to have a long black pole that isn't the barrel of a rifle...and most of all, to walk like I have all the time in the world. So help me remember what that's like. Tell me how your season is going, about the trials and tribulations of your longest haitus of fishing, or if you are military then about your deployments...especially if you were sent to a place where the only water was buried under dunes that mockingly flowed like water. Hell, tell me your poor ice-locked sons of guns about your cabin fever...because given that I spent the better part of my winter seasons losing my already frail grip on sanity in Illinois winters or succumbing to OCD-like repetitive, stubborn behaviors in tiny Louisiana, chocolate milk farm ponds...it'll make it all seem fair that I now get to fish while it's your turn to deal with the ice; (unless you're one of the homicidal, psychopaths we call ice fisherman)
