red sheets
I have this job. It's not always pretty, it's not always nice. Sometimes it's like working at a gas station and sometimes it is completely horrific, it's awful and wrenching and I don't know why I do it.
Most times it's the gas station type job. You go, you do it, you go. Go, go, do not let it in. But then there are these other times, man, when I ask myself if it is better to give someone sight or to sleep at night myself. Those times are often accompanied by a red sheet. Medical examiners will sometimes cover the body with a red sheet instead of the standard white, because, see, red on red. It's easier, you know, for the bystanders, the orderlies, the unfortunate witness.
A red sheet. And you know. There is something in there, man, something coming, something you want nothing to do with. It's a warning, a signal that you can see a hundred yards out, stop where you are and turn around because you don't want to mess with what's in here. And while the sight of that sheet does amazing things to my nervous system, I am always glad to see it. I am glad to see it because it tells me in advance what to expect, what to prepare for. And I know. I know that no matter what, there is no way this is going to go well.
Dear men of the world
I am writing to respectfully request that you extend a similar courtesy to the women of the world. Those of you that are willing and able to inflict that kind of damage and pain on the woman that loves you, please mark yourself clearly in some way so that she knows what she's getting when she unzips that bag. There is nothing quite so breathtaking as the discovery that the thing you expected to be a nice pleasant home death is actually a multiple stab wound. And we are not prepared. We are not prepared for the way that honesty turns into deceit, that kindness turns to cruelty and forever turns into thinner and prettier. We are not prepared, and the realization, the weight of the knowledge, is more than we can take. It is, it is more than we can take. We take it, because to do otherwise is not an option, but it is too much. We are not the same. We are not the girls we once were, and why you do it to us is beyond comprehension. There are plenty of women who do not care for you one whit, thousands of them, and they will be more than happy to mess with you as much as you mess with them. It is not necessary for you to do these things to women that love you. Warn us. Warn us, so that we can stop where we are and ask ourselves if we really want to see what's under there, if the pull is so strong that we absolutely have to approach. Maybe the answer will be yes, because God knows there are a lot of rubberneckers, but I am not one of them and you know what? A lot of us could live our entire lives turning our heads from the carnage, and we would rather. Wouldn't it be great if we had that option? The option to take a deep breath, put our mask on, and open it up? To know in advance and flee? Why not spare us?
Most times it's the gas station type job. You go, you do it, you go. Go, go, do not let it in. But then there are these other times, man, when I ask myself if it is better to give someone sight or to sleep at night myself. Those times are often accompanied by a red sheet. Medical examiners will sometimes cover the body with a red sheet instead of the standard white, because, see, red on red. It's easier, you know, for the bystanders, the orderlies, the unfortunate witness.
A red sheet. And you know. There is something in there, man, something coming, something you want nothing to do with. It's a warning, a signal that you can see a hundred yards out, stop where you are and turn around because you don't want to mess with what's in here. And while the sight of that sheet does amazing things to my nervous system, I am always glad to see it. I am glad to see it because it tells me in advance what to expect, what to prepare for. And I know. I know that no matter what, there is no way this is going to go well.
Dear men of the world
I am writing to respectfully request that you extend a similar courtesy to the women of the world. Those of you that are willing and able to inflict that kind of damage and pain on the woman that loves you, please mark yourself clearly in some way so that she knows what she's getting when she unzips that bag. There is nothing quite so breathtaking as the discovery that the thing you expected to be a nice pleasant home death is actually a multiple stab wound. And we are not prepared. We are not prepared for the way that honesty turns into deceit, that kindness turns to cruelty and forever turns into thinner and prettier. We are not prepared, and the realization, the weight of the knowledge, is more than we can take. It is, it is more than we can take. We take it, because to do otherwise is not an option, but it is too much. We are not the same. We are not the girls we once were, and why you do it to us is beyond comprehension. There are plenty of women who do not care for you one whit, thousands of them, and they will be more than happy to mess with you as much as you mess with them. It is not necessary for you to do these things to women that love you. Warn us. Warn us, so that we can stop where we are and ask ourselves if we really want to see what's under there, if the pull is so strong that we absolutely have to approach. Maybe the answer will be yes, because God knows there are a lot of rubberneckers, but I am not one of them and you know what? A lot of us could live our entire lives turning our heads from the carnage, and we would rather. Wouldn't it be great if we had that option? The option to take a deep breath, put our mask on, and open it up? To know in advance and flee? Why not spare us?
posted by machine central at 1:25 PM
1 Comments:
thank you for this
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