You know what that means, diary. War’s a-brewin. And something I’ll admit only to you? I seriously cannot wait. When the country goes to war, everything’s so intense. The suddenly delicious domestic food, the maybe-for-the-last-time fucking. Everyone so relieved to have a title and a specific job to do. The orders, diary, we go nuts for them. “Orders are orders,” and a shrug, “you know how it is.” Freedom from choice / is what you want, as the man said.
The world opens right up. Lots of travel, learning the fundamentals of any number of foreign languages, vehicle repair, cryptography, field dressing, orienteering—tons of useful knowledge that can be brought back and put to work in the inevitable postwar boom. It makes for well-rounded citizens, capable and ready, unflinching and serious.
So when o ditator sends his zeppelins over our territories, creepily quiet, I will let slip a quick salute before crying out trebuchets—now! Because he has brought us all to a higher plane of existence. Someplace clever and devout, someplace vital.