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The assholes trying to kill you don't operate on Wile E. Coyote logic. There are no boxes placed next to the road with a huge sign saying "FREE PORN MAGS HERE!" and a suspiciously bomb-shaped bulge in the bottom. But more often than not, they'll leave clues. Seeing little things like freshly dug dirt or a pile of rocks stacked vertically could mean the difference between eating shitty pouch food for a few years and drinking it through a straw for the rest of your life. But it's hard to see those signs when your own mind is actively fighting you. After a few hours of staring at a landscape with crippling depression, your mind starts supplying what it expects to see -- dirt, dirt, rock, hey, look, a goat! rock, dirt, more dirt -- and it skips right over that pressure plate you're about to hit. This effect is compounded when all you can think about is the sweet, sweet Xbox waiting at home. All alone. It must miss you so much, the poor thing.

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You do everything you can do to fight boredom, mostly by chewing tobacco and pounding energy drinks. This inevitably leads to pissing in bottles, because rural Afghanistan is notoriously deficient in 7-Elevens. (You do find the odd Chevron, but seriously -- you think American gas station bathrooms are bad?) My truck was a single seater, and I only had 3 inches to my left, 3 inches to my right, and an inch or so between my body armor and the wheel. When you have to pee, the tight confines are interesting to try to maneuver around, and by interesting I mean covered in urine.