This is a story about me, Xerxes.
Today is St. Patrick’s Day. As a Satanist, the religious significance of this day means nothing to me. But on this day in 1995, it became something personal—something earned.
Today, I share a piece of my life. I am a U.S. Marine Corps Veteran. And this is just one small tale of what it took to claim that title.
On this day in 1995, I became a mean, green fighting machine—better known as a United States Marine. Of course, back then, it was a Friday. I went to boot camp in October 1994, and what should have been 11 weeks of training turned into twice as much.
I was asthmatic—something that could have been disastrous. On the third night of processing, we were finally allowed to sleep. By then, the cold night air and the stress had triggered an asthma attack. I tossed and turned, struggling to breathe, knowing morning would be brutal. By sunrise, I was weak, my chest burning. I wasn’t sure how I’d last another day.
During medical processing, I finally spoke up. The doctor examined me, then handed me an inhaler. He asked if I’d ever seen one before. Of course, I knew what it was—but I played dumb. “No, what is it?” He explained how to use it, and when I took a hit like a pro, he smirked. “That was pretty good,” he said. “Like you’ve used this before.” I said nothing.
They diagnosed me with pneumonia and sent me to Physical Conditioning Platoon (PCP) to recover. To get back to training, I had to pass three consecutive Physical Fitness Tests. Most recruits had to pass one. I had to pass three in a row.
Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, and my birthday—spent in boot camp. On New Year’s Day 1995, I passed my third PFT. But there was no relief—I was going back to Training Day One. Most recruits in PCP rejoined where they left off. Not me. I had already spent three months in boot camp, and I had three more to go.
If anyone ever felt lucky, believe me, I didn’t. I earned my way through hell and back. So, it was fitting that I graduated on St. Patrick’s Day—not because of luck, but because of pure grit.
Nobody ever wrote to me in boot camp. Nobody showed up to my graduation. That grand ceremony for newly minted Marines? I stood alone. But I didn’t care. My life—my journey—was always a lonely one. That’s why I share these stories.
Because at the end of the day, nobody cares about you. You’ve got to earn everything. I wanted that title, and I fought for it at all costs. Try that for a bucket list.
That’s why we’re The Few. The Proud. Marines.
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