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Obviously a post from the past. I FUCKED UP AND MOVED IT AND THIS BLOGGER APP IS SO OLD IT FORGOT WHERE IT WENT.  Gonna put it up here anyway. 

Filler up.


There is a curse in living where you grew up. I have lived in _____ for 40 years excluding a few years in _________ and ______. Over those years I have met many folks, I have many friends and have very few enemies (to my knowledge). I have much love and connection in this town and with that comes pain. This job I do really makes me confront my time here on earth. It's never easy but there are times when it becomes much harder. I do not consider myself a particularly weak person but there are days that I feel pretty beat down by it all. 

 My problem is, I know too much. 

 What I am confronting right now is just how thick my callouses have become. I don't mind the smell of decomposing bodies, I don't flinch at gaping gunshot wounds, it never surprises me to find stomach contents filled with partially digested pills. I don't don't see these people as people anymore. I see them as a job to do. I see them as work. This, is not good. In order to "get through it" we make jokes. We laugh at expressions of horror or how stupid the tattoos are or how dumb someone could be to get to our table. We laugh and chortle wittily with scalpel and saw and syringe as we break them down to smaller parts and categorize them with labels. We make fun of their ways as while ship these bits to laboratories and anxiously await the results so that we may have our answers. We strip them of their clothing and medical interventions and take photograph after photograph to catalog the condition of their bodies in their most naked states of being.  

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