"The very existence of flamethrowers proves that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, 'You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I'm just not close enough to get the job done.'"
It's been a bizaare past seven days. M' furnace has been out for a week, and as I mentioned before, m' friend's baby sister is deceased. The latter has been swirling in m' head, taunting me, dispelling everything I thought I learned about life. It's just not fair.
The youngest of three, she graduated from Northwestern's seven year Medical School program, recently doing her residency program at her pa's (father is a doctor) hospital, until police discovered her body in the park, a knife protruding from her chest. No more details, because it's not my story to tell. I guess I wanted to cry, but it's not in m' nature anymore. I've embraced the Malcolm Reynolds (see Firefly series) persona, his rhyme-and-reason, a wee bit too hard. Actually, most of m' thoughts are of vengeance and retribution. Bad, I know. Ack, too much ....
M' best friend's little sister is deceased and not accidentally. I've known her since grade school to graduating medical school to now. Ask me again about m' cynical view of life and I'll punch you squarely between the eyes.
Last week, a co-worker passed away. Apparently, he went to sleep and didn't open his eyes again. I didn't know him well. I saw him only at the weekly team meeting. He was an older fella, 50+ years I reckon. Rest in peace, Richard.
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