Date:	2009-12-08 20:00
Subject:	Enrique Pizzaro, Part II
Security:	Public
Mood:	drunk
Music:	Lamb of God "What I've Become"

At approximately four o'clock this afternoon, the PIECE OF SHIT who murdered Jason was found guilty and convicted of manslaughter in the first degree, a charge that carries a maximum sentence of 25 years. He should have gotten Murder 2, but whatever. At least the little prick didn't walk.

When he is sentenced next month, family and friends will be allowed to speak on Jason's behalf. I am posting this rant here and now only because this is a completely uncensored version of how I really feel, whereas, if I am allowed to speak in court that day, I may not be able to fully speak my mind.

Which (we can all assume) is probably for the best.

But first, let's revisit what I wrote about the little shit back in November of last year:

I hope that when that fucking DOUCHEBAG gets convicted, they spend the next 25 years ASS-RAPING HIM WITH BROKEN BOTTLES. But first, I hope they shove dirty, shit-and-cum-stained underwear in his mouth to muffle the screams. And then I hope someone videotapes it and posts it on YouTube, so I can upload it to my iPod and laugh my ass off as I watch it over and over and over.

AND OVER.

Ahhhhhhh. It feels good to read that again.

To be fair, I have modified the following rant from an entry many years ago, which I wrote to a generic "Gangsta" I encountered on a train. But, due to my current state of inebriation, this is as good as it's gonna get. And goddammit, it still fits.

Dear Enrique:

You are a WASTE OF LIFE. You are an abortion that should have happened, and that I wish I could have personally performed. You are a useless piece of shit who will spend the rest of your pointless fucking life being utterly and completely UNNECESSARY. You will make someone who tries very hard to do a little bit of good in the world question the very fiber of her being, question her own motives, and probe disturbing corners of her mind so dark she didn't know that they even existed, simply because she dreams of ending your life in a way that you ended her friend's.

And if you keep up your little-boy-angry, pseudo-gangsta ways, I GUARANTEE that one day I will scrape you off the floor at Riker's, bloody and screaming, full of shank holes and gasping for air. And you won't remember me, or how I sat behind you in court every motherfucking day burning holes into the back of your skull as you smirked and fidgeted, and you will ask me to save you. You will beg me, as your life runs away in little red streams that the other inmates watch flow with boredom and disinterest, you will BEG me to save you. And I wonder, when the ambulance doors close and we are alone, what choice will I make then?

I feel ugly. I'm not sure who I am right now. I don't like me. But I know you. Oh yeah buddy, I fucking know you.

You are nothing. You're already dead. It's just a matter of how you check out. And when you die, the world won't give a fuck. Because you're just another piece of trash to be picked up after the party's over and just another mess to be cleaned up after the yellow tape has been torn down. I know you, and you don't scare me. You're just another stain on the sidewalk.

YOU'RE JUST ANOTHER FUCKING STAIN ON THE SIDEWALK.

The jury may not have gotten to see the "badass" tattoo on your neck that says, "Fuck the world." But today, despite that, the world gets to say, "Fuck YOU."

FUCK YOU.

Date:	2009-12-03 19:44
Subject:	Photo finish
Security:	Public
Mood:	drunk
Music:	Lamb of God "What I've Become"

Seeing blown-up photos of the blood-drenched stairwell where Jason was murdered is doing VERY LITTLE to ameliorate my drinking problem.

VERY FUCKING LITTLE.

Date:	2009-10-01 21:18
Subject:	Junk
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused
Music:	Lords of Acid vs. Sean Paul "Sit On It And Get Busy" mashup

So, since I already totally blew the "let's not talk about my job" thing in the last (full-length) story, I figured I might as well write up an old EMS job that, for the life of me, I cannot figure why I never posted, and (as it so happens) was *also* about a really big penis. I have no exact date for this one, but based on my partner (Jason) what we were wearing at the time (turtlenecks and sweatshirts) and our initial level of blasé during an arrest (high) I'd put the date at around January of '06. And without further ado...

So it's about 6 in the morning and I'm working up a Cardiac Arrest. Jason is doing compressions and I'm ventilating, and we're basically just doing what we can until the medics show up, which they do a few minutes later. Our patient is about 70 and in his birthday suit save for his bathrobe, which (since we have started pumping on his chest) has begun a slow slide open. At first, this is not a problem, since all I can see is the top of his junk, and (while impressive in girth) it does not terribly distract me. I see boobs and penises and asses all the time on this job, and not in a good way either.

Anyhoo, Jason is pumping away, and the medics are doing their thing, so I have pretty much nothing to do other than squeeze the bag. This gives me a lot of time to consider the aforementioned junk. "Yo Jay," I say, and motion toward our patient's privates.

Jason takes a quick look in the direction of my nod, then does a comical double-take. This would be due in large part to our patient's large part, which is becoming increasingly visible as the bathrobe continues to spread open.

Jason looks back at me, gives me a little Quagmire-esque smirk ("Giggity giggity! Alllllll right!") and keeps on pumping. But I am increasingly riveted by what's being revealed, because about 8 inches or so are being aired out, without any sign of tapering off. And since being dead is prolly about as soft as that thing's gonna get, I am really fucking impressed. I'm also pretty sure that Grandma, who's been married to the guy for a zillion years, has by now had all of her internal organs displaced.

After working up the guy for almost 45 minutes, the medics get orders from Medical Control and we stop CPR and pronounce. The bathrobe is still hanging on, presumably because it's got a hell of a lot to hang on to. I mean, I'm looking at a solid 10 inches and the Alaskan Pipeline still has no end in sight, so I'm curious as hell. But I'm no sicko; this one's gonna have to remain a Mystery for the Ages, just like what killed the dinosaurs and shit like that. I gently re-wrap the robe without taking a peek, then start cleaning up the mess. A few minutes later we gather our equipment and file out of the bedroom.

There's a bookshelf by the door, and I casually glance at the knick-knacks as I pass by: some Precious Moments figurines, a little crystal heart, a child's homemade birthday card (I love you, Grandma! in red crayon) and a small picture frame.

Oh yeah, and a butt-plug and set of anal beads.

Grandma and Grandpa, it seems safe to say, still liked to get their freak on. And in the butt to boot. Awesome.

I nudge the medic in front of me. "Check it out," I whisper, as I motion toward the shelf. She looks blankly at the sex toys, then back at me, uncomprehending. "So?" she asks. "What is that?"

Busted. Who's the freak now?

"Ummmm, I don't know," I reply weakly, and leave it at that.

So we give our condolences to Grandma, and I take an extra moment to hold her hand in sympathy.

I mean, not only was Grandpa hung like a horse, but he also didn't mind obliging her with a little ass-play now and then, even at his advanced age.

No wonder Grandma was crying.

Date:	2009-09-14 14:18
Subject:	365 Days Later
Security:	Public
Mood:	crushed
Music:	Clint Mansell "Together We Will Live Forever"

Dear Jason,

Has it been a year already? It seems like I just spoke to you yesterday.

Today, they dedicated a plaque to you at Station 35, and I cried like a bitch. You would have laughed your ass off at me and called me gay.

Holy shit dude, I miss you.

Date:	2009-08-26 21:52
Subject:	Bright Lights, Big Idiot
Security:	Public
Mood:	impressed
Music:	Bjork "Human Behavior"

Holy shit, I didn't see *that* coming, "that" being the overwhelmingly positive response I received to my 10,080 minutes of fame on LJ's Spotlight. (I mean, I logged in to my account today to find over 570 new comments and 55 new emails!) So you'll forgive me if it takes me awhile to slog through them all and respond.

In the meantime, I'd like to say a few words:

First of all, thank you so much. I have never written for the enjoyment of others, yet you all seem to really be diggin' ma shit, if I may be so blunt. So I am truly amazed that somehow my words were able to elicit genuine laughter and/or tears from so many people because frankly, when I write this stuff, it just sorta shits itself out and I don't think about it anymore. That being said, I'm going to puke on your parade by saying that whatever I write in the future will be written just as I always have: as if no one is reading it and I don't give a fuck. 'Cuz I don't. Sorry.

Secondly, my apologies to this guy for pointing out the very obvious fact that I don't update very often. Unfortunately, that trend will very likely continue, mainly because a) I have a life and b) I don't consider myself a writer, and therefore don't feel the burning need to update my journal every goddamn day just so I can make it cools. (I'm really sorry I missed your Spotlight though, buddy, when was it exactly?)

Thirdly, I truly apologize to those of you who friended me and I am unable to friend in return; apparently LJ sets a limit of 1,000 and I have abruptly and unceremoniously been cut off. (Please do not feel slighted; basically as long as your screen name isn't something retarded like hitlerwuzkewl or iluvmichaelvick I will pretty much friend you back, because really...who am I to judge? You want to read my shit, knock yerself out.)

Which brings me to my fourth point, namely, the few, the insane, and the sleep-deprived who have read my entire journal all the way back to Day One. Because although I am thoroughly impressed by your fortitude, I just gotta say...

What the fuck is wrong with you?

xoxo

- DM

Date:	2009-08-16 20:43
Subject:	Blast from the past
Security:	Public
Mood:	chipper
Music:	System of a Down "Cigaro"

So I'm digging through piles of old papers to find more EMS stories like these last two (I See Dead People and Suffer The Little Children) that I never got around to typing up and/or posting. And I found something from the Contempt 'zine that I wrote waaaaay back in early 1999, and it suddenly occurred to me that I hardly ever write about anything besides my job anymore, and I think I need to stop that shit. Because my job SUCKS.

So before I post anything even remotely related to work, I'd like to post something about my time spent as a dominatrix. Which...come to think of it...was my job...at the time.

Goddammit.

My, What A Big Pepper You Have
DM fondly remembers her not-so-alter ego

So I'm in the bathroom putting on make-up (maybe she's born with it! maybe it's 10 pounds of Maybelline!) and getting ready for what in my opinion is the Event Of The Year (the opening night of Jackie Chan's Rush Hour) when suddenly my visiting four-year-old nephew bursts into the bathroom, slams the door behind him and makes a mad dash for the bowl, pulling down his Osh Kosh B'Goshes and Batman underoos as he goes, then abruptly stops and looks up at me, stunned (as if he didn't shove right past me on the way in) and grabs his tiny package in one hand, panic spreading quickly across his face.

"Michael," I ask, "what's wrong?"

Silence. Uncomfortable shifting. A sideways glance at the bowl. A quick check of the one-hand cover-up.

"Aunt Donna," he says carefully, "I don't want you to see my pepper."

Now, first off, let me just say that "pepper" is short for "pepperoni," which is what my sister-in-law has decided to call his penis. I didn't ask her what happens if, at lunch, someone offers the kid a slice of pepperoni. (If I were him, I'd just start screaming. And probably never eat again.) Anyhoo, as I watched my nephew clutching desperately at his tiny pepper, I was suddenly reminded of my days (nights?) working as a dominatrix. I mean, I wasn't reminded in a sexual way (what kind of sick incestuous weirdo do you think I am?) I mean in it in a purely academic way. So gather 'round children, and Aunt Donna's gonna tell you a story about the day she saw the biggest pepper of them all.

Once upon a time kiddies, Aunt Donna was known as "Mistress Deanna." And if she was in a REALLY bitchy mood, simply as "Goddess." Anyway, one night Mistress Deanna went to work at the dungeon. Now, for those of you who have never a) worked in or b) visited a dungeon, let me just say that a dungeon is a lot like a college dorm. Meaning: in the movies, college dorms are wild and crazy, filled with hot, towel-clad chicks and hilarious prankster frat boys. In real life however, dorms are pretty quiet, with some kids studying or watching TV in the lounge and average-looking chicks in long, pink terrycloth bathrobes carrying their toothbrushes and shower shoes in little wire baskets. In other words, not like the movies. And not very sexy.

And that's how it is in a dungeon. In the movies, gorgeous, busty, Faster Pussycat-type vamps beat hot, sweaty, near-naked men into ecstasy, while every inch of the place just oozes sex, sex, sex. In real life, three women watch cable TV and the bouncer plays Nintendo while in the next room a fat, balding man is wearing women's underwear as the short, pudgy dominatrix dons a hot-pink rubber strap-on and wonders where the man's wife thinks he is right now.

Anyway, to do away with all the third person bullshit, I'm at work and in walks a short, slender man in a business suit. After "the pitch" (the little speech we give to a prospective client, during which he decides who he wants to kick the crap out of him), he selects me and off we go. As always, I ask him what he's looking for in the session.

Now, let me take a quick moment to tell you that what people are looking for are things that I never even thought of. Not in a zillion years. Things that go waaaaaaaaaaaay beyond a foot fetish. Or a little bondage and discipline. Things that don't just walk the line between fantasy and reality; they jump on it, do a little dance, pee on it and stab themselves so they can bleed to death on the other side.

Yeah.

So when a client says something like, "I'd really like you to wrap me in cellophane and then give me a bath in coleslaw while I beat off to an old episode of Mr. Rogers," I just shrug and say, "Okay, whatever," mainly because that's not even the weirdest request I've had today. *ahem* Moving on...

So I ask the guy what he's looking for, and he says, and I quote, "I want you to wear a really big strap-on and insult the size of my penis."

Huh? That's it? I ask, unbelieving. Yes, he assures me, a little verbal humiliation is all he needs, thank you.

I leave the room, laughing to myself. This is going to be the easiest money I ever made! In the Supply Room, I rummage through the box of dildos, whistling happily, finally selecting the one the other ladies refer to as the Brown Bomber. This sucker's a foot long and weighs a couple of pounds. It's downright creepy. So anyway, I stride confidently back into the room wearing this ridiculously large rubber cock, ready to coast through an hour of insults. "Okay worm," I snarled to the poor, now-naked slob, his back to me in a corner. "Let me see your puny little pecker!"

And then he turned around.

"Excuse me," I said smoothly, and exited.

Now, there are those among you who think they have big penises. Or for you ladies, and perhaps some of you men, who think that they have seen big penises. Maybe even *very* big penises.

So let me just say: you ain't seen DICK.

I calmly shut the door and walked down the hall. I calmly entered the lounge where the other doms looked up at me, quizzically. And I stood there a moment, Calmly.

Silence. And then...

"OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODHOLYSHITHOLYFUCKINGSHIT!!!" I'm jumping up and down screaming, the strap-on flopping about wildly, ready to take someone's eye out. The massive, muscled bouncer drops his Nintendo controller and jumps up, concerned. "What's the problem?" he asks me.

"Oh nothing," I choke. "Nope, nothing at all. Nothing at all except that this guy has the BIGGEST GODDAMN DICK I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE I MEAN WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!!?"

They laughed at me. I'm overreacting, they say. How big is big, anyway. I tell them to go take a peek. And they do, one by one.

And one by one, they all some running back down the hall, squealing. Except of course for the bouncer, who looks like he's caught somewhere between illness and admiration. He retreats sullenly to the bathroom, presumably to measure his own member against a whole new yardstick, pun very much intended.

The doms calm down, and finally ask me what the guy wants anyway. And in the tiniest voice I have ever heard, I squeak, "He...he wants me to...tell him that...that his penis is...small."

There was a brief moment of silence. Which was followed immediately by three women pointing at me and howling with laughter. One girl was actually crying, doubled over, begging me to stop. I stood forlornly with my limp rubber dick, miserably wishing I had simply not come to work tonight.

I collect myself, ignoring the laughter of the other women and return to the room. I open the door carefully and sidle in, keeping my back against the wall and Moby Dick as far away from me as possible. Which, given the size of it, wasn't nearly as far as I would have liked. I found myself praying that it wouldn't go off suddenly, because I figured that the damn thing was probably like a fire hose, and I wanted NO FUCKING PART of that.

Big Dick: Is something wrong?
In my head: Holy shit what the fuck is that gigantic thing and where the fuck do you keep it?!!? AAAAAAAAGH!! IT'S AS BIG AS MY GODDAMN ARM!!
Out loud (and I don't really mean loud, I mean barely audible): Your...ummm...dick is so...so...small...it makes me...umm...sick.
In my head: EW EW EW EW I can't believe he needs two hands to go all the way around it and he still can't make it and how the fuck am I supposed to do this for an hour and EW EW EW please kill me EW EW EW EW...
Big Dick: I know, Mistress. I'm so pathetic.

And instantly I felt not horror, not disgust, but genuine pity for the guy, the same way you always feel sorry for the 10-year-old girl with the triple-Z tits. It suddenly occurred to me that this poor guy has probably never had sex in his life. Ever. I mean, where exactly could you even stick that monstrous thing? You could amputate a leg, maybe, and that hole might be big enough, but I doubt it. This guy is basically having sex with furniture and storm drains. And for those of you who claim to be able to take a big dick, I'd just like to say: trust me. If you ever saw this beast headed toward any one of your orifices, you'd run screaming in the other direction.

And then I understood what he really wanted.

All he wanted was to feel normal. Average. Six or seven inches, tops. He wanted to forget he was hauling around Mini Me and never getting any, if only for a fifty-minute hour. And it made me think of all the men who'd give anything to be bigger. And here's a guy who'd give anything to be smaller. To just pretend to be smaller. And I thought: no one's ever happy.

Realizing that, I made it my mission to make Moby feel like a minnow. I threw myself into it with the fury of three premenstrual attacks and still, it wasn't easy.

But one mentally exhausting hour later, he went home humiliated and happy, so satisfied by my performance that he offered to be my personal live-in slave and do all of my cooking, cleaning and other menial chores for as long as I deemed him worthy. I politely declined. For one, I never bring work home with me. And two, my apartment is barely big enough for me and my cat, never mind another person and a 12-pound cock.

So as I stood in the bathroom, smiling at my nephew and watching him hold himself, I hoped that he would one day have an average-sized penis and a great love life, rather than a two-and-a-half-foot monster and pay women $180 an hour not to have sex with him, but just to make him feel ACCEPTED.

And so, my children, the moral of the story is this: be happy with what you've got. Go out and rent Rush Hour. And when you reminisce, do it fast and get the fuck out, before your nephew pees all over the bathroom floor.

Go, little pepper, go.

Date:	2009-08-07 22:27
Subject:	No shame
Security:	Public
Mood:	devious
Music:	Lamb of God "Grace"

Dear Captain: I wish you had been there when I met with the BITS investigator, who practically doubled over laughing when she heard your name...

Dear Captain: I wish you had been there when the Union rep actually DID call you a retard, which is something that I NEVER did...

Dear Captain: I wish, in fact, that I *had* called you a retard, because then I would actually have gone down to BITS for something serious (although I really should thank you for the 4 hours of overtime I got out of it) *smooches!*...

Dear Captain: I wish you had been there every time I mentioned your name to your fellow Captains and coworkers, if only to revel in the slew of profanity that accompanied their less-than-glowing recollections of you...

Dear Captain: I wish I had a nickel for every colleague who gleefully recounted your meteoric rise to infamy within the department...

Dear Captain: I wish I could have been there to see your face when the so-called Sheet of Shame took your recommendation of "four days' pay suspension" and reduced it to a "formal reprimand"...

Dear Captain: I wish you could have been there when I had that aforementioned sheet FRAMED, and hung in my bathroom (which is where all of my SHIT goes)...

Dear Captain: I wish you could have been here with me now, as I scan this entry into Facebook infamy, because I am laughing so hard that I think, like, two drops of pee just came out...

And finally, Dear Captain: Congratulations on your life. Because in the SEVERAL MONTHS since you first stubbornly refused to yield to my emergency vehicle, I have yet to find ONE SINGLE SOLITARY HUMAN BEING who wouldn't throw you in front of a bus if given the opportunity. Whereas, in the *day-and-a-half* since the legendary "Sheet of Shame" was published, my phone has been ringing OFF THE HOOK with calls from people who KNOW FULL WELL what kind of person/EMT/medic I am, and support me 100%.

p.s.
Dear Grace: I miss you. You were briefly a plump, frizzy and hilarious distraction from my everyday life. I think I'm gonna send you a nice fruit basket this Christmas.

*smooches!*

Date:	2009-08-05 19:57
Subject:	Letting go
Security:	Public
Mood:	sad
Music:	"Angel" Sarah McLachlan

I have been fostering a litter of truly ADORABLE kittens for the ASPCA for about four weeks now.

The thought of giving them up makes me cry. But come Friday, back they go.

When I first opened their cardboard carry-box, I remember their four impossibly small heads popping up and their big eyes widening in fear. They were scared of everything and everyone.

Almost a month later, they're climbing all over me to get cuddles and kisses, and pushing around Amazing Larry as if he *isn't* 5 times their size.

They are beautiful, tiny monsters, and I love them dearly. I only hope they will go to good homes.

Someone tried to liken the experience to raising children whose umbilical cords must one day be cut, but I disagree.

I mean, you raise a child to be a good person, and hope that he or she makes good choices in life. But these babies won't have a choice about who adopts them, and the thought of some psycho with a bunch of two-year-olds running around pulling their tails and whatnot makes me sick. Or worse yet, someone who associates with people like that fucking bitch who put a kitten in the oven.

I don't want to give them back. But I must if I want to keep fostering, which is the only way to take near-feral kittens and make them adoptable. Not to mention the fact that I'm far too young to be the Crazy Cat Lady already. But still...

My heart is breaking.

Date:	2009-07-22 21:55
Subject:	Belief
Security:	Public
Mood:	drunk
Music:	Sarah McLachlan "Angel"

For those of you who have never been to a funeral for a Member of Service (Fire, PD, etc.) let me just warn you: I don't care how good you are at funerals. 'Cuz when those bagpipes start playing Amazing Grace...well, it's like the "brown note" for tears. And that lone trumpeter playing Taps doesn't help either...

Today, Station 35 buried yet another one of its own; EMT Eder Alvarez. He lost a hard battle with leukemia and died at 26, leaving behind a young daughter, her mother, family, friends and coworkers. This is the third death at the station in a year...all young people, all sudden, all tragic.

Ed's pastor spoke at his wake, and I couldn't help but be envious of him. He smiled the whole time, extolling the joys of Heaven and how he was certain that Ed was "in the arms of The Lord". In fact, it seemed that everyone around me took great comfort in the belief that Ed was "in a better place".

Yeeeeeah. This really doesn't comfort me much. Because to me, *Hawaii* is a better place, and I am 100% POSITIVE it exists. But unfortunately, you have to be alive to go there.

I truly wish I had the faith of my youth, the faith I had before life twisted me into this cynical, skeptical bitch. Because when funerals roll around and pastors start talking about Coming Home To God, my eyes start rolling and I just don't buy it.

I mean, what kind of fucked-up god kills kind-hearted young people in their prime? WITH PAIN? While murderers, rapists and pedophiles go unpunished? (And don't tell me that they'll get what's coming to them in the Afterlife; they deserve to suffer NOW.) Anyhoo, I just can't agree with such a theory. My teeny-tiny little mind simply can't conceive of any "Master Plan" that involves good people suffering and dying. I wish I could just accept and agree. But I can't. And so, where others find comfort, I find grief. There is no solace for me.

As I stood, motionless and erect in front of yet another coffin, I was reminded of a quote from the mildly-entertaining movie Pitch Black:

"I absolutely believe in god. And I absolutely hate the fucker."

Yeah. That about sums it up.

Date:	2009-05-19 21:28
Subject:	Be careful what you wish for
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused
Music:	Kidney Thieves "Before I'm Dead"

So my friend and fellow paramedic Felicia and I are sitting through a 4-hour lecture on Death Investigations, Blunt and Penetrating Trauma Injuries, Forensic Anthropology and Car Crash Injuries. The lecture is given by four prominent doctors and pathologists, and in general is really interesting and impressive.

So anyhoo, the lecture is accompanied by a PowerPoint slideshow of disemboweled, decapitated, massacred or otherwise mutilated bodies, one after another. As I bite into my sandwich, a murder victim flashes onscreen. Her arms and legs have been cut off, her throat's been slit, and she has been set on fire. I glance over at Felicia and am greatly comforted to see that she's digging deep into a bag of chips, apparently as unfazed by the image as I. And, as I look around the room, I see an entire auditorium of EMTs and Paramedics who are also trying to grab a quick bite between topics.

I feel briefly normal, until a few minutes later a mutilated corpse appears on the overhead projector.

The doctor announces that this particular man had been caught up in a tragic accident which claimed a number of victims, and this one (in particular) had been an innocent bystander at the time.

Of course, when she adds that he was found with a suicide note in his pocket, I burst out laughing. Loud. And I can't stop.

No one else is laughing.

I still think it's kind of funny.

Yeeeeeeah.

I have problems.

Date:	2009-04-21 21:33
Subject:	Killer, Part II
Security:	Public
Mood:	accomplished
Music:	Lamb of God "Grace"

I just returned from my first boxing class, where my main inspiration was Captain McJerky's pudgy face. My instructor told me that I am a natural and called me "Killer" for the rest of the class, and this is the second time in my life that I have earned this nickname.

*KA-POW!* biotch!

Date:	2009-04-21 14:13
Subject:	What did the 5 fingers say to the face?
Security:	Public
Mood:	devious
Music:	Tool "Ticks and Leeches"

So a few months ago, my partner and I were driving lights and sirens to the hospital with a STEMI patient. STEMI is short for ST-segment Elevation Myocardial Infarction, better known as a heart attack, and not a little one either.

Anyhoo, while on the expressway, we came upon a car that apparently didn't hear our blaring sirens and horn, so I picked up the P.A. and told the car to move to the left. Again. And again. And AGAIN. AND AGAIN.

By now my partner is yelling up to the front, wanting to know who was in front of me: maybe just a little old man who was hard of hearing, or possibly some flashy car with a pimped-out sound system that effectively shut out any and all noise that wasn't the thumping drum-and-bass of whatever god-awful song was being pumped through zillion-dollar speakers.

No, I told him, just some regular guy who won't move. So we're laughing, baffled, because we can't imagine what kind of genius would deliberately try to slow down an ambulance that is obviously in a big fucking hurry.

And so, I begin a steady chant through the P.A.

Me: The left. Move to the left. Left left left left. Buddy, it's not hard. Just move to the left. Do you have a problem with the concept of the left lane? Please...move...to...the...left. The llllllleeeeffffffftttttt. Leftleftleft.

*pause*

Me: Left.

The car moves to the right.

I sigh. At least he's out of my way.

So we get to the hospital and drop off our patient, and I'm just about to go out to the bus and straighten up when a very plump, frizzy-haired captain approaches me, clearly pissed.

Captain: Were you driving (whatever vehicle number we were in, I forget what it was)?
Me: Yeah. What's up?
Captain: Come with me.

As she leads me outside, I'm wondering what the hell the problem could be. Is the bus dirty and some prankster wrote COCKSUCKER on it or something? Did I leave it running in the bay and the exhaust is killing everyone within a 100-foot radius? Did I leave the keys in the ignition and the window open? Or maybe...

And while I'm still trying to figure it out, this woman turns to me and launches into a screaming tirade, saying that she was in the car in front of me and how dare I call her a retard on the P.A., and what the hell was I doing in the right lane anyway? and I need to speak to your supervisor immediately.

Me: What? What are you talking about? I didn't call you a retard.
Captain: Yes you did, I heard you.
Me: I don't know what you heard, but I didn't call you a retard.

This launched yet another bout of screaming, and as I'm trying to get a word in edgewise, I'm thinking: holy shit, *you're* the idiot who DELIBERATELY impeded the progress of an emergency vehicle? An EMS Captain? Shouldn't you fucking know better?

I finally walk away from her as she starts to scream into a cell phone, probably to some chief she's tight with; to be honest it wouldn't surprise me if she were blowing him to boot. Whatever.

I call my station and let them know what happened, and my Lieutenant is laughing because she knows I'd never do anything like that. When I get back there, one of the far-too-many chiefs we have takes me into an office and yells at me, clearly not interested in the fact that both my partner and my patient can back up my version of the events and not Captain Cuntrag's. He tells me that I'm going to get a CD (Command Discipline) and finishes by stating that the P.A. system is not to be used by anyone, ever. And I'm laughing to myself, because that's the most bullshit story I've ever heard; there's no Operations Guide order stating that we can't use the P.A. if we need to. But he's a chief and I'm just a lowly paramedic, so this is an argument I am simply not going to win today.

Anyhoo, a CD is basically just a piece of paper saying that you did something bad. If you sign it, it either sits around at the station for a year, or if it's something serious they can take pay or vacation time away from you. If you refuse to sign it, the case gets turned over to BITs (Bureau of Investigation and Trials, basically our in-house legal system) and they figure out if the charges are valid and what to do about it if they are.

Now, those of you who know me have probably already figured out that there was NO WAY IN HELL I was going to admit to something that I didn't do, so of course I refused to sign it and this morning I found myself down at the BITs office in Brooklyn. A union representative is there to help me out, and he asks me to tell him what happened. He smiles when I finish, and then asks me the captain's name, as if he already knows.

Me: Captain [blank]

And he bursts out laughing.

Me: You know, I've been getting that exact same reaction every time someone asks me that.

He nods.

Union Rep: So, did you call her a retard?
Me: Of course not! Although at this point, I wish I had, because then at least I would be getting in trouble for something I actually did.
Union Rep: You know, I've known Captain [blank] for many years.

He pauses.

Union Rep: And she *is* a retard.

I laughed.

Me: Yeah, I heard that. I don't know anything about her personally, but apparently she's not very highly-regarded by her peers.

He gave me a "you-can-say-that-again" look and left to get the investigator as I laugh to myself about the whole situation.

I wasn't laughing for long though, because a minute later the investigator comes in and informs me that the captain and chief both recommend that my penalty be four days' pay. And I'm thinking, holy shit, does THAT suck. I mean, I don't make a lot of money, so it's not like I'd be losing thousands of dollars or anything, but still...bummer. Losing even one day's pay sucks.

However, in what I can best describe as a stunning upset, the good people at BITs decide that my case isn't as dire and tragic as the two bosses insist that it is, and let me off the hook with a Warned and Admonished, basically a slap on the wrist for me. And (I'd like to think) a slap in the face for them.

Yay! Let's hear it for the little guy!

*SLAP!*

Date:	2009-04-13 17:18
Subject:	Suffer the little children
Security:	Public
Mood:	depressed
Music:	Tool "Reflection"

In keeping with my last entry, here's another one that somehow never made it from notepad to online:

Original date: 11/15/08

So it's about 6:30 in the morning of what has been a ridiculously busy night, and my partner is finally able to take a bite out of the breakfast he bought two hours ago. All I'm praying for is that we don't get a late job, which pretty much guaranteed that at 6:35, we got a late job.

Fuck.

The text says: 10-YEAR-OLD MALE/ASTHMA/NO INTUBATION HISTORY. I give my partner the thumbs-up. You see, almost every pediatric asthma I've ever had has been a kid with a cold. The reason it comes in as asthma is because the second the kid sneezes or coughs, the parents shove an inhaler in his mouth, then wonder why he doesn't get better. It's hard to believe that people can be so ignorant about their own child's medical condition, but there it is.

So anyhoo, that's great, because there'll be nothing to do and we can just gather up everyone and go. Plus, we won't have to carry anyone. So maybe the late job won't be so late after all.

As we pull up on scene, we see a man holding a child over his shoulder and waving at us. Niiiiice. Now we don't even have to go inside. I turn to my partner.

Me: I got this. Eat your breakfast.

I get out as the father approaches, and he gives me a brief history while I open the patient compartment. As he climbs in, he casually says, "Yeah, he was having problems with his asthma since last night. I was giving him another treatment when he just sort of fell out."

I look quizzically at him. Kids that age generally don't just fall asleep like that.

I guess you can see where this is going.

So the father is still talking as he drops the kid in front of me, and I finally get a look at my patient. And for what seemed like an eternity, I froze.

Because he just dumped a dead fucking kid on my stretcher.

He was shirtless, and his entire chest had that weird, mottled look that kids get when they stop breathing. Adults turn blue, but kids get pale with dark-red splotches. Just like a goddamn Dalmatian.

I open the kid's eyes. Pupils: fixed, dilated. I put my fingers on his carotid and feel nothing. I put my hand gently on his chest, and the tip of my fingers felt a single beat, just below the center of his ribcage. Two seconds later, I felt another. And it was weaker.

The father has been calmly chatting away behind me, completely oblivious to the fact that his child is not only in respiratory arrest, but is less than a minute or two away from being completely dead. I have no idea what the fuck he is saying; his voice has become like the adults in a Peanuts cartoon: Wah wah wuh wah wah wah. Oh yeah, and he's about 30 miles away and in a tunnel.

All of this takes place in about eight seconds. Eight seconds that, in my mind, lasted about half an hour and cut my life expectancy by a good 15 years or so. I snap out of my daze and think: Don't panic the father. Be calm. Be calm.

In a squeaky, high-pitched voice I have never heard before, I call up to the front compartment where my partner is happily eating his breakfast, completely unaware of what's going on.

Me: Uh, Emilio? Could you come back here please?
Emilio (with a mouthful of food and slightly annoyed): What?

That's it. Calm time is over.

Me (shrieking): Emilio get back here NOW!!!

The tone of my voice got him moving but quick. Startled, he drops his food, jumps out and into the back. He looks at the kid on the stretcher and then back at me, clearly shocked.

Me: Bag him. Get me a BLS.

Duh. As if I needed to tell him that.

By the way, as all of this has been happening, Dad has been prattling on as if the boy is complaining of the sniffles and not (most decidedly) circling the drain. Now, you don't have to be a medical professional or a goddamn genius to know that when the ambulance people are squeezing the little bag over your kid's face, that's bad. Maybe even really bad. Any dimwit who has ever seen ER, Third Watch or any TLC 911 show can make the association between that bag and "Shit, meet fan." Except, it seems, for Captain Oblivious here.

Dad: So, is he having an asthma attack?

To myself, I say: Yeah, buddy. And maybe his last. So shut the fuck up so I can think.

Now, pediatric medications are weight-based. So when we administer them, first we have to estimate the kid's weight, then multiply that by the dosage. Oh, and we have to convert their weight to kilograms first, did I mention that? So as I'm tearing open the drug bag, I'm furiously calculating in my head:

Brain: Okay so the kid looks like he weighs about 70 pounds. 70 pounds divided by 2.2 is...31.8 kilograms. The dose is 0.01 mg/kg so...

And then from the back of my brain, a deafening scream:

Brain: HE'S DYING!! JUST GIVE HIM THE FULL FUCKING DOSAGE, ASSHOLE!!

I snap out of it to see that I've drawn up the correct amount, which happened to be the max we can give anyway. I jam the syringe into the kid's arm and push the plunger. And for one second, neither one of us was breathing.

You know that scene in Pulp Fiction where John Travolta plunges that big-ass needle into Uma Thurman's chest and she jumps up and scares the bejeezus out of everybody? Well, that kid popped up, chest-first, head lolled back, eyes open, and gasped hard enough for me to feel the air being sucked away from my face.

He flopped back down. The epinephrine had opened his airway, but he was too exhausted to breathe. Agonal.

My partner starts to bag him just as the BLS shows up, and we're in luck. It's a crew from my old station, and they're good. I don't need to tell them what's up; as soon as they get inside they can see it's scoop and run.

Me: What's the closest hospital?

The EMTs shoot looks at each other, and then at me. The closest hospital, without naming names, is not a hospital we want to take this kid to. Especially if we want him to, ya know, live.

Me: Can you get me to King's County in five minutes?
EMT: I can get you there in FOUR.
Me: Do it.

And so we send the father into the other ambulance and drive off like maniacs, bagging the kid the whole way. By the time we get to the hospital his color had returned to normal, and his heart rate was back up to where it should be. We roll in shouting his info to the ER staff, and they whisk him away into the critical care area.

As I begin the paperwork, the father walks in. Now mind you, you can look through the glass door of the critical care room and see the tube sticking out of his kid's mouth and the gigantic machine attached to the other end of it, not to mention the half-dozen doctors starting IVs and taking EKGs and whatever. And yet, Captain Oblivious is still giving the same story to the triage nurse, calmly, casually and without any indication WHATSOEVER that his child was mere MOMENTS away from death a few minutes ago.

Dad: So how's he doing? Is he having an asthma attack or what?

The triage nurse looks past him at me, eyes widening in disbelief. I shake my head at her in disgust. He was chatting idly with the receptionist when we left.


At the end of the day, I wanted to feel good about that job. Like, hey, I saved that kid's life or whatever. But in reality, I felt pretty shitty about it, and still do. I kept replaying the moment when I looked down at him on my stretcher and remembering how completely fucking BLANK my mind was. And then how my very next reaction *wasn't* I know just what to do! No, it was sheer, blind PANIC. I mean yeah, I ended up doing the right thing and it all worked out in the end, but that whole incident felt completely awful, and served as a brutally painful reminder that while I had indeed been an excellent EMT, I wasn't a very good medic.

I'd like to think that I will be someday, but I'd also like to win the Mega Millions someday.

And at the moment, neither thought seems terribly likely.

Date:	2009-04-10 22:32
Subject:	I see dead people
Security:	Public
Mood:	tired
Music:	Crisis "Nomad"

Now that I'm on LODI (Line Of Duty Injury, a.k.a., Light Duty) I've got an AWESOMELY normal schedule. Which means I can catch up on the 8 zillion things I've been meaning to do for the past year or two or five.

One of those 8 zillion things, boringly enough, is to update my livejournal. So I started going through a lot of old files that I'd written, but never typed up and posted. And this is the first one I came across:

Original date: 5/24/07

So as part of my rotations, I have to spend some time getting acquainted with the special guests of the Medical Examiner, in a place you may know as the Morgue. I was pretty psyched for this particular rotation, because I was fairly certain it would be the only one where the patients wouldn't complain that I was a student ("I don't want no damn STUDENT stickin' me wit needles!") and also wouldn't mind if I examined them a bit more thoroughly, say, by removing their tracheas and sticking my fingers into their valleculas to see how it works when we intubate them.

So anyhoo, I'm at the reception desk, and I'm waiting with some other students from my class. And after a few minutes a very nice young woman with very inappropriate morgue-touring open-toed footwear comes out and tells us that we're in luck; they're very busy today and as a result there will be plenty of autopsies to watch. As she guides us to the back office, giving us a little tour of the place, we come upon a row of computer desks. Two women are seated at them; one is staring intently at her computer screen and the other holds a phone to her ear, motionless, as she stares out of the window.

I lean over to the guy next to me.

"They seem so lifelike!" I whisper loudly.

He looks at me as if I have just touched him with poo.

Yeah. This is gonna be fun.

So we get dressed in isolation suits, which is kind of overkill in my opinion. I mean, I can peek into the next room and see some chick with her hands UP TO HER ELBOWS in an open stomach, and she's just wearing gloves and a little head cover thingy for protection. And I'm pretty damn sure that I will *not* be doing anything approaching that level of excavation today. So I think maybe I'm a little overdressed. But whatever.

Anyhoo, we go in the operating room, and I'm kind of surprised to find that it's almost uncomfortably warm. As if reading my thoughts, our tour guide says, "A common misconception is that it's very cold in the morgue. But as you can see, it's not." I wait for her to elaborate on exactly why you would want to keep dead, rotting meat in a warm room for a few hours, getting progressively stinkier while you slice it open and pull stuff out of it, but she doesn't. She just tells us to ask the doctors lots of questions and enjoy, and then she leaves us among The Dead.

The Dead are five bodies, all in a row on long, metal tables. I quickly name them Fat Lady, Skinny Chick, Ouchy, Go Grandma and Poor Baby. They're naked of course, and for the most part look like they're sleeping. The exception would be Fat Lady, who has already been sliced open and stitched back up. I learn that she had been an organ donor, and so her autopsy had been done before we got there.

So anyway, the way it works is that every table gets a doctor and an assistant. A photographer is moving between the tables, taking pictures of each body and whatever comes out of it. The assistants, I would learn, have no formal training in medicine whatsoever. They basically just applied for the job and then someone showed them how to do it. This is kind of weird to me, because in your everyday job situation, the "it" is usually filing paperwork, or flipping a burger, or using Microsoft Word or whatever. It is most decidedly NOT slicing off the top of someone's skull with a bone saw. The doctors are all young, and I mean like 25-at-most young. (Fer chrissakes, I have T-shirts older than these doctors!) The radio is on, and most of them are singing and dancing along in between splitting chests and dissecting livers.

I move over to Skinny Chick. The doctor has removed her ovaries and uterus, which he has laid out neatly on a nearby table. The photographer comes over, and spends a bit of time with it, apparently trying to get the best angles and shutter settings. She tells me that she is an artist and art photographer by trade, and this is just a gig to earn some extra cash. I secretly wonder what her original art looks like, and realize that it's probably really normal and boring. Only spooky little goth kids would have a job like that all day and then go home and paint pictures of it. And somehow I doubt the Medical Examiner would hire a girl who looks like she gets off on a stiffy, if you catch my drift.

Ouchy is at the next table. He looks party bionic, mainly because his legs have all kinds of external metal traction devices attached to them to try and stabilize the crushed bones underneath, hence the nickname. His report states that he had been hit by a car, but that he didn't die right away, and in fact they're not really sure what happened to make him die. I, however, am pretty sure they're going to find out though, as they're yanking shit out of his middle like it's candy from a piñata. They've got a ladle, and I mean, like, a plain old Bed Bath & Beyond soup ladle, and they're scooping blood out of the guy's belly like it's the punchbowl at Jeffrey Dahmer's birthday party. Yeeeeeah. I bet the folks at BB&B's marketing department never thought of peddling their wares to THAT particular crowd!

Go Grandma is next. I named her that because until her death, it appeared that she was not only still in the game, but probably scoring on top of that. Go Grandma was about 60, but had new boobs, a facelift, tummy tuck and a nice pedicure. So basically, she looked better than me, and I'd wager that she looked less dead to boot. You go, Grandma!

The last table is Poor Baby, and I secretly hope that I miss *that* particular autopsy altogether. I mean, just because I don't like kids doesn't automatically mean that I want to see one sliced open with her insides out. And it didn't help that she looked perfectly healthy and sleeping, either. I look over at the white body bag she had arrived in. In black marker, someone had drawn a little angel on it. For one brief moment, I thought I was going to cry. Luckily, the deafening buzz of a saw at a nearby table snaps me out of it.

I look over at Ouchy. The skin on his head has been sliced around the outside and pulled down over his face, just like you would pull off a sock. And I think, holy shit, when the fuck did THAT happen?! The assistant is standing at the head with the saw, and neatly takes off the whole top in about 10 seconds. So now we're looking at the brain, the seat of consciousness, of personality and emotion...of being, essentially. So naturally I would think that this is something to be handled gently, reverently even.

Nope. He scooped it up, cut whatever was connected to it and plopped it on the table like mashed potatoes on a Thanksgiving plate. Yum!

So after the brain comes out, the face gets pulled back up, the top of the head goes back on, and the whole thing gets stitched up. And as I'm watching Ouchy get his stitches, it occurs to me that he has what just might be the World's Best Haircut. I mean, the guy got hit by a car two or three days ago, with death occurring some time yesterday. He's been sitting in a freezer for about 14 hours, he just had his head sliced off, his face peeled down, and the whole thing put back together. And yet, every strand of his spiky, young-punky-Asian-guy, post-80's frosted-tips 'do is perfectly in place. I kind of wish I could take a picture of his hair and show it to his stylist, although I'm pretty sure that particular offering might be met with screaming and gagging rather than shock and awe.

All the tables are buzzing now, and heads are rolling, so to speak. Mercifully, Poor Baby is untouched, as she has to wait for the resident doctor to finish up Ouchy. (The newest doctor always gets the pediatric patient, simply because it doesn't happen very often and he or she needs the experience.) I make a mental note to mysteriously be gone when Ouchy is finished, no matter what time it is.

Skinny Chick is completely empty now, so I wander over to see what happens next, and it's basically the same deal as Ouchy's. First, the skull goes back on. The skin comes off the face and back on the head, and then gets stitched back up with thread thicker than my little finger. The assistant (not the doctor) does all the stitching, and suffice to say, precision is not a high priority. I mean, this is stitching that Dr. Frankenstein would be proud of. Everything that had been in the body is now out, and gets dumped into a red medical waste bag. The bag goes in the hollow abdominal cavity and then is sewed up with the bag inside. Another student who is also a funeral director tells me that this is pretty standard stuff; if the body comes from the morgue it's the funeral home’s job to toss the red bag out and make the body look like nothing ever happened. Note to self: never rummage through the trash at a funeral home.

So Skinny Chick is all done. Fat Lady had been done before I even showed up. Go Grandma had, while I was checking out Ouchy’s piñata-goo, somehow been cleaned out and stitched up. And Ouchy was getting the last of his stitches put in. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

It was Poor Baby time.

The assistants are all putting the bodies back in their bags. This basically involves dragging them from one table to another and pretty much dumping them like a sack of potatoes. Quickly and unceremoniously, they were zipped up and rolled out.

I turn back to Poor Baby and cringe. Somehow, I just don't want to see them throwing the kid around and dropping her on the table or whatever. Not. At. All.

I look up and notice a detective hovering nearby. He was there, I learned, because the infant’s death was considered at least somewhat suspicious, and the results of the autopsy were obviously going to be integral to his case. His jaw was set with hardened emotion as the doctor prepared her autopsy instruments, and I immediately recognized his expression as one I had worn many, many times myself. People often ask me how I deal with all the shit that I see on this job, and that look is pretty much the answer. I mean, you can’t just burst out crying every time you see a dead baby, even if you want to. So, you check yourself and do your fucking job. And then you go home and drink yourself into a coma. Oh wait, did I say you? I meant *me*.

So anyways, the doctor has finished all of her prep work, and is ready to start. I quickly glance around, panic-stricken, hoping my classmates have already left so that I can just excuse myself and disappear. But there's no such luck. They're chatting with one of the assistants, and seem in no hurry to leave. Great. Fucking great. Fucking PERFECT.

I look back to the doctor, who is approaching the table that Poor Baby is on. I hold my breath, waiting for the grab-drag-and-plop that had been the standard operating procedure for every other body. And to my amazement, it just doesn't happen. In what was one of the rarest things I have ever seen on this job, the doctor very gently scoops up the tiny body, cradling it to her chest. She holds it tenderly for a moment, then places her carefully on the table, adjusting her arms and legs into normal positions. She takes the scalpel in her hand, and then pauses. And pauses. And pauses.

She doesn't want to do it either.

I turn away, sick, and that's when I notice that everyone else is leaving. And I have never been so relieved in my life.

I didn't say goodbye, I didn't say thanks for the learning experience, I didn't say JACK SHIT. I just ran the fuck out of there like the damn building was on fire.

It's been a few hours since I got home, and I can't stop thinking about Poor Baby. I mean, how the hell did that doctor ever manage to slice her open? Scoop out her guts? Dissect her brain and then throw it in a red bag? It freaks me out and makes me nauseous at the same time.

Luckily, there's no problem that a good stiff drink can’t solve.

Except, of course, a drinking problem.

Bummer.

Date:	2009-03-20 11:32
Subject:	Jerks
Security:	Public
Mood:	irate

So I'm home on LODI (Line of Duty Injury) and because we're EMS and not Fire Suppression, we have to stay home between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. This is not a problem for me, as it hurts to walk around anyway, and besides anything I have to do in the outside world can generally be accomplished after 4. If we have to leave for some reason, say, a doctor's appointment or "child care issues" we call the LODI desk and check out.

Now, I'm bunny-sitting this week for my friend jackie. (For those of you who are long-time readers of my livejournal, that would be the bunny I rescued off the mean streets of Flatbush three years ago.) Anyhoo, Bernie the bunny is sick, and needs to go to the vet. So naturally I called the LODI desk to tell them that I was going to the vet, and needed to check out for child-care issues.

And they laughed at me and said that doesn't count.

I'm sorry, but my pets ARE my kids. And it kinda pisses me off that somone else gets to take their little rug-rat to the doctor for some stupid ear infection or whatever without a problem, whereby my rabbit has a LIFE-THREATENING CONDITION (GI Stasis, by the way) and they give me shit for it.

As if I really needed *another* reason to think the Fire Department is a bunch of assholes.

Date:	2009-03-10 13:40
Subject:	One more
Security:	Public
Mood:	chipper
Music:	Benny Goodman "One O'Clock Jump"

I'm also considering this one:

And WHAT?
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/158353.html

Many, many thanks to all who have been chiming in on their favorites. And Brian, I carry so many damn fat chicks down the stairs that I can't quite remember which one you mean. What was the rest of the story about? was it funny or sad? I'll try to look it up.

Date:	2009-03-10 00:43
Subject:	I need your help!
Security:	Public
Mood:	anxious
Music:	The Smiths "Bigmouth Strikes Again"

The good people at LJ have just informed me that my journal has been nominated to be published in their "LJ Turns 10" book, which is pretty cool. Problem is, they want me to suggest 5 entries, and I think I'm so desensitized to my own shit that it's hard for me to see which ones are interesting or funny or whatever.

I tried hard and came up with these seven:

Seventh Floor
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2004/01/21/

Don't Ask
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2004/04/09/

Note to Self
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2005/02/22/

Subject: Wisdom
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2005/09/15/

"Hey, it could be worse. You could have ended up in the refrigerator."
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2005/10/07/

Jamaican Me Crazy
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2006/04/18/

Sisterhood of the Missing Pants
http://bitchgoddessdm.livejournal.com/2008/04/27/

If you would be so kind, can anyone out there pick five from that list, or suggest better ones? I would really appreciate it!

Date:	2009-02-27 00:34
Subject:	Uncle Fukka
Security:	Public
Mood:	enraged
Music:	Lamb of God "In Your Words"

My grandmother is dying.

We had to put her in a nursing home. We tried the 24-hour home aide; but now, she needs more care than even that. My aunt and my mother visit her every day. They have taken care of every detail of my grandmother's life since she became incapable of doing it herself. They have been there, front and center.

I won't go into details about what's going on now, but I wrote this email to my mother's brother tonight. Keep in mind that this is the TONED DOWN version, because I didn't want to upset my Mom & Dad.

The original version was...to put it mildly...NASTIER.

Anyhoo...


Dear Charlie,

To the man who, as his then-patient's husband lay dying in a hospital, was fucking her...

To the man who, after his then-patient's husband died, had the FUCKING BALLS to move into her home and raise her kids to be hopeless, desperate for guidance and LOST before throwing them out...

To the man who, during Chief's last coherent moment on this earth, informed him of his imminent death and then flitted off to a tennis game...

To the man who, when he found his mother semi-conscious and lying in a puddle of her own urine, did NOT call 911...

To the man who, even now, is more concerned about his FUCKING ASSETS than his FUCKING MOTHER...

I would just like to say:

I am ashamed to be related to you.

I am more ashamed to be related to you than my cousin who is in prison for brutally murdering his girlfriend by stabbing her 40-something times.

And if you were diagnosed with cancer tomorrow, I would be as happy as if I had won the Lotto.

I hereby formally disown you as my uncle and godparent. DO NOT send me another birthday card or Christmas card EVER AGAIN. They will be returned, UNOPENED, so please, don't waste a stamp, a tree and my time.

You are hereby free of any familial obligation to me. By all means, live your pointless, useless fucking life. I hope it is long, painful, and overflowing with heartbreak and misery.

And know this:

When you are old, frail and debilitated...

Those two poor kids you TOTALLY FUCKED UP probably won't be there to quibble about putting you in a home. Or (heaven forbid) their motherfucking ASSETS.

THEY'LL PROBABLY JUST BE GLAD YOU'RE DYING.

Because I know I will be.

*Smooches!*


- DonnaMarie SanSevero

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Make an on-line slideshow at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Date:	2008-12-09 22:57
Subject:	Santa Pic 2008
Security:	Public
Mood:	amused
Music:	Lamb of God "Walk With Me In Hell"

It had to be done.