49. Seventeen days?

We're gettin' short, darlings. Three more weeks and out. Or so. But the length of time between now and our exit date reminded me of a conversation in one of the finest action/horror movies ever made.

"We'll put the hot tub here; it'll really work with the feng shui..."

If I were a Colonial Marine,

compatriot with Vasquez, Crowe, or Hicks,

and part of that armed corporate machine

I guess I'd probably know their rules and tricks.

Holed up in some wrecked base of operations,

our dropship crashed, and ammunition low,

without our orbital communications

how long we'd wait for rescue, I would know.

When Ripley asked us how long that would be

before relief ships left Sulaco's bays,

I'd raise my hand to answer, without glee,

because we'd have to wait seventeen days.

Today Megan and I must also wait

that long before we go back to the States.

I just like this picture.