I don’t mind leaving my cozy, warm bed at 5:30 to brave the freezing cold of the Jersey morning.  I don’t mind so much commuting over an hour to work every day.  And I don’t really mind funding terrorist agendas by fueling my car once a week.  I do, however, draw the line at having to see the sick and dying every day.  Their misery is as contagious as the ailments that plague them and I'm counting down the days until I get to leave their purgatory.

There are fourteen beds in the hospital unit where I work.  Some of them are in for “minor” injuries like crushed skulls, gangrenous limbs, and multiple stab wounds.  These fortunate souls stay only for a few days in the intensive care unit and are transferred out either to their homes or to the regular hospital beds downstairs once their condition is stabilized.  For the others though, their stay is indefinite and their outlook is grim.  Some have dead, scarred livers from a lifetime of hard-drinking.  Their abdomens are so swollen that their bellies are literally muffin-topping out past the rails that keep them in bed.  One guy even vomited pools of blood to the floor and the gruesome spatter almost made me pass out from what looked like a bad B-movie gone horribly wrong.  Others have their cancerous colons removed and have to poo out of tubes poking from out of their stomachs.  Sometimes the lines get infected, bacteria saturate their bloodstreams, and they’re pretty much eaten alive as they curse the entire ward with ghastly moans.  And then there are my personal favorites.  One day on my lunch break, I decided to go and harrass some patients in healthier areas of the hospital because old people have fun stories sometimes.  I saw a sweet old woman on the second floor, sitting quietly in a wheelchair in front of her room and I decided to say hello.  She looked up at me and asked, “Could you please help me find my husband Murray?  I think he’s over there by the end of the hall.”  I smiled back softly, and began pushing her down the sparkly floors shimmering from fresh Pine- Sol.  We peered into each room and she'd call out her husband’s name whenever we saw someone.  As she swiveled her head back and forth, she constantly mumbled and asked herself why he couldn't have just taken her with him.  After a few revolutions around the floor, I assumed he went out for some coffee or something and so I wheeled her back to where I found her, wished her well, and said goodbye.  A nurse approached me, smiled, and said, “That sure was nice of you.  Son, you’re going to heaven one day.”
-No I’m not.  I make fun of fat people.  Anyways, have you seen this nice lady’s husband?  We can’t seem to find him.
“Oh Ms. Rupert?  Her husband passed away fifteen years ago.”

I stood there for a few seconds looking at the nurse, then at Ms. Crazy, then back at the nurse trying to absorb the significance of what was just said to me, and I ran back up to my floor nearly pissing my pants.  I’ve never been so scared in my life. 

I hope everyone reading this remembers to drink in moderation, to not smoke, and to keep their minds healthy and active.  I never want to be seeing any of you in my hospital beds as I make my morning rounds.

today i locked myself out.  i was upset so this is what i did. 

if i can't get in, no one can!   

can't get out, either

eventually i got in from the back door and this is what it looked like.

my car actually looks better covered in snow.

i wish it was a big white chocolate covered strawberry.
thirty minutes and two aleve later, and. . .

tada!  it's ugly again.

this is my room and my girlfriend.  we like boston market.

we've been together for two years and she is cool.

have a good day.

To the flaming sacks of shit who smashed my car window at 51 26^th street between the hours of 12:30 and 3:30 this morning in the city:

I can see you now, grinning ear to ear, mouth full of aunt jennifer’s homemade mashed potatoes she ever so thoughtfully made extra lumpy for me, watching one of my ninety-eight carefully chosen and illegally burned dvds, and downloading gay porn from my brand new wi-fi ready fujitsu lifebook my mother bought for me with money she could have used to take herself on a well-deserved vacation.  That’s quite an impressive collection of pens and highlighters inside the backpack my loving girlfriend worked an entire week for, huh.  They’re used by people who go to school to be productive, non-parasitic members of society.  People with educations, futures, and happy families—all things you will never have and I feel no sympathy for you whatsoever, you ugly, pathetic welfare child.  When I grow up eventually and get my license to dispense medicine, perhaps you will one day come to me to ease the pain and suffering of one of your loved ones, but don’t be surprised if your wife or daughter suddenly sprouts chest hair and her nipples fall off, or if your mother gets pregnant and makes you a retarded, limbless sibling.  Freak prescription drug errors happen, and unfortunately, they happen to ‘good people’ too.  

When I find you, I will take my new set of writing utensils and insert them unlubricated into every crevice of your body until there are no more, at which time I will set your bloody body afire to satiate my burning desire to inflict pain upon you.

But don’t you worry.  There’s a tight little cranny in hell for bastards like you, right next to illiterate presidents and oil executives.  I hope you enjoy eternity burning in hell.  Have a good day.