M.

Comuters are funny little things. You never know how much you rely on them until they aren't there. And then you wander around, wishing you could check your email or do your paperwork. When it is back, you never really thought you missed it.

L.

Today, I helped an 18 year old with long division. He has been helped numerous times before and I am sure this time won't stick either. In his spare time he likes to shit in the shower or his pants and finger paint the walls with it.

K.

I am 5'8". I weigh 107 pounds.

Today I ate 8 pounds of food. At least.

J.

Your dad, ... he isn't really doing too well. Could you check his pulse? He said his left arm hurt and his chest feels funny.

Maybe you should call an ambulance.

I'm just tired. I a'm go'ing'to'lay'down.

Let me check your pulse.

What is his pulse?

92/minute. But erratic.

I don't know what to do.

I don't know what you should do either. Probably go to the hospital or phone an ambulance.

I'm'm'n'ot'go'ing.

Phone the health nurse.

The health nurse wants you to take his pulse again.

It is still the same, still erratic. Fast then slow then fast and slow.

They want us to go to the hospital.

I'do'n'twan't't'ogo'to'the'hosp'i'tal'on'a'Fri'day'night.

Damn it. Go to the goddamn hospital. Go with mom or I'll phone an ambulance.

We're going to the hospital.

I.

A button-up collar shirt. Neatly ironed and ready for wear. The uniform of the transformer. Button-up shirt meet institutional t-shirt. T-shirt meet button-up shirt.
Now change the world.

H.

Can one be forgiven for murder?

It is a legitimate question. Perhaps if society has said it is okay, if the reasons were there then it is okay. Fine, society says it is okay. But can you forgive yourself? How many times can you go over and over in your head how you could have avoided the situation or done anything different that would make it not real. Because no matter what, you took a life. And you think about that everyday. The guilt travels all through your body and eats your heart. It eats your throat and chokes all the words you could say about what had happened. It eats your stomach as it ties it in knots, like a worm in a decaying corpse. It leaves you as a shell. A shell with hollow sunken dark eyes.

G.

I saw a girl who was sexually abused. I saw it in her mouth. I saw it in her body. I saw it in her clothes. I saw it in how she acted. I saw it as easily as if she had yelled it into my face. But she didn't yell it in my face. So what do I do about it now?