Second letter tonight. I am inspired. You'll get a kick out of this one.

So I sit down to take yet another irregular dump on our rickety, unstable, fly-infested "throne." A nice moment often precariously situating my bum on the remnants of a folding chair. I become painfully – no uncomfortably – aware, that our building has just reached minute 120 of our two hours of allotted electricity. Chunk! Darkness. Not partial darkness – complete and total black. Fantastic. The generator is down today – again. So there is no hope of waiting this one out. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Mind you, this is a "toilet" – with a big government-issued bucket partially filled with non-potable water placed next to it for "flushing." There is also a lovely little waste basked of overflowing, used shit paper and baby-wipes next to my size 11 ½ desert combat boots.

Sadly, I have prepared for this – knowing the grid rotation, we are not due power for another six sweltering hours. Therefore, most of us – the shrewd ones, always carry a flashlight in our cargo pockets. I have of course run out of batteries earlier today – typical. Fret not gentle reader – for I always have a back-up plan. The really cunning enemies of discomfort and inconvenience – like yours truly – also store a chemical light in those deep America-made-by-the-lowest-bidder-pockets. Dom-didda-dom! Yes. One of those favorite little friends of soldiers and ravers worldwide – the orange chemlight!

I crack that sucker satisfyingly as the guy getting a haircut in the next room rants and someone elsewhere in the building stubs yet another toe on a weapon, or a helmet, or a Private. I am shitting on a hollowed-out folding chair by orange artificial light hoping a super-sized rat doesn't decide to improve Iraqi-American relations at this precise moment in time. And I am strangely happy about it.

They don't pay us enough for this I am sure.

We deserve a fucking parade for having to endure this alone.

Just another day in Baghdad.

Love you.