Day 1 at Camp Iwannapeepee: We have arrived. I don't know what to make of this place. The uniforms are strange (no pants) and the food is mediocre. But, I've signed up and there's no turning back now. We are quarantined to the backyard. They claim it's for the outdoor experience, but I think there's something else going on.
There is a lot of singing but I don't know most of the words to the songs. It seems that the minute I catch on to the lyrics, the "lead counselor" Lena, changes them. She is more of a drill sergeant than friend. I'm not sure what to make of her. Every 43 seconds we have to march the smallest of the campers to the potty. And then we sing songs. And recite ABC's. And cheer. A lot. And sometimes we cry. For no reason.
There have been several uniform changes today. They have designated me with latrine and laundry duty. It's a never ending cycle. I think it may have been because I was crying about wanting to leave. They say I have signed up and it's my duty to follow through. I walk away from the taunting about quitters being spitters, or something like that. I cry into my yellow camp T-shirt.
Day 2 at Camp Iwannapeepee: I was woken up several times throughout the night to take the little one to the potty. I wanted no part of it but I am quickly learning that what I want no longer matters. I am exhausted and more than a little beaten down. I close my eyes and imagine myself sitting on the edge of the ocean. The waves splash on my feet. It's so realistic. It seems the small one has "spwashed" the contents of the potty on my toes. Back to latrine cleaning duty. She is willing to help me though. I watch her carefully scrubbing her tiny pink throne. That's when I notice she's using my toothbrush.
The food is no better today. Apparently I have to COOK too if I want to eat. What the hell did I sign up for? I try to escape but the lead counselor finds me and I have to answer a thousand questions while washing the living room floors. I embrace my inner Annie. It's a hard knock life. For me.
I am being forced to endure hours upon hours of whining and crying. I don't understand. My only guess is that they are trying to prepare us in the event that we are kidnapped we don't give away any secrets.
In addition to camp songs we are now also forced to recite:
This is my potty. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
My potty is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.
My potty, without me, is useless. Without my potty, I am useless.
I think it's a bit extreme. But my opinion is quickly shut down as I am sent to fold enough pairs of underpants to clothe the northern hemisphere.
Day 3 at Camp Iwannapeepee: Morale is low. At least, for me. The cabin fever is setting in. I am beginning to hallucinate. There's two small girls running around the camp yelling "I nakey!" They are singing "My First Piss Went a Little Like This! Pssss and twist! Psssss and twist!" I think this song is inappropriate. When I voice my opinion, the little one defecates in the closet in defiance. I decide it's safest to keep my opinions to myself as I get out the spot bot.
Paranoia sets in. All I see are two blonde girls. With pony tails. Staring at me. Then they run away. They come back moments later in different clothes. And stare at me.
Once and a while entertainment is provided between floor scrubbing, toilet scrubbing and laundry duties. I am forced to watch small rodents rescue other small rodents from imminent doom. I try to call these good Samaritans to save me but their pencil holder just sends me directly to voicemail.
Day 4 at Camp Iwannapeepee: I'm beginning to see a light at the end of the seventh circle of hell in which I have been ensconced over the last few days. The small one spent most of this morning crying and asking for a "diapey" but I have remained unmoved. I have been broken of all emotion. I am just a pawn in this game.
We are running low on critical supplies like laundry detergent and pop tarts. The quartermaster for our unit is away on a business trip. Or so he claims. I am the only one trained to drive the tank. It is like Russian Roulette shopping. The small one has to go potty exactly 746 times. But will only go in the plastic one. In the trunk. We almost make it through the trip. Almost. My daily responsibilities extend now into the car. My hands are chaffed. My soul is shattered. I don't know how much more of this I can handle.
I may not survive this. Please send a reconnaissance team. Or at least a pizza. Hold the pee pee.
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