(I had so much fun making the previous journal page that I decided I wanted to do more. There's no plan for this, I haven't a clue how many pages I'll make (and any uploads will be sporadic), but we're just gonna have a wee bit of fun in the meantime. Timeline is post-MW3 but Johnny lives. And if you guys got the chance to read Soap's journal (you can find it on the wiki page 'Soap's Journal'), the FNJ stands for 'Fucking New Journal', hence the volume two aspect.)
For pages without sticky notes, see below, alongside transcripts:
Inside Cover:
If found, return to 22nd SAS Regiment, Credenhill, U.K.
"Something 'useful' to wipe that excess brain fluid with. Just get fucking better." - Lt. Simon 'Ghost' Riley
Pages 1-2:
Fuck, this feels weird to be writing again. It’s slow going; my hands cramp or get numb if I try and hold a pen for too long, but the phys. doc thinks it’s a great way to increase/refine motor function. Plus it helps with the… (The word you’re looking for is aphasia, you’re welcome) The fucking word that means I can’t think of the right word (whoever named the condition is a sadist).
So here we are.
Been in a coma for a couple of months, woke up to Lt’s snoring (absolute mouth breather this one, no wonder he doesn’t sleep on stealth missions) (There’s a reason I don’t sleep on my back, Johnny). Watched him for a bit, wished I had my phone to record it (blackmail at its finest) (Just remember who wiped the drool off your face for two months), then got worried that he needed my gas tube up his neb more than I did. Gaz says he’s been there a lot. Enough that the big man’s arse cheeks have left a permanent imprint, Gaz found it uncomfortable. (<- Redact this)
They all visited, never been given so many flowers in my puff, they were pretty enough but they made my nose itch something rotten.
Had a little cry to myself when they left. An odd feeling to know you’ve been missed that much.
But Lt. sort of lingered, looked a bit lost, a bit stumped. Then gave me this new journal, like he knew I would need it. (Asked the doctors about your recovery plan. Had the thing for weeks, never lost hope.)
They got me sunflowers and thistles, nice touch. Too thick to press + too much moisture.
Pages 3-4:
Gaz and Ghost are the only ones keeping me sane. Therapy is a bitch: muscles are weak, reflexes are shot to hell and Gaz has taken to throwing peanuts at me now that he knows I can’t fucking dodge them. “Pretend they’re bullets,” he says, “A training simulation”.
Chinese water torture has nothing on nuts hitting you square between the brow. (I need you to really think about your phrasing here).
Now I can’t stop finding the salty fuckers everywhere.
Lt. sleeps a lot when he visits. Have a feeling he didn’t get much when I was out of commission.
andulkaphoto
areudirty
izzy806
stormborns
romaincrisis