I love the dead. I love embalming them, I love touching them, I love smelling them, I love cutting them open. The living are impossible to handle. Why do living people ever inhabit the same space as I do? It's so inconvenient. Getting back to cadavers was wonderful after the last few days. When I walked into the room I imagined taking the sheet off the old man, lifting him off the table and giving him one last dance.
My twin is still having problems so I stayed with her again last night, and brought her to work with me today. I had that thing to do and it was only 15 minutes from her house so it wasn't too inconvenient. I had her wait upstairs until we were done. The woman I had to, I suppose 'interview' would be the correct word, today was a compete waste of space. The ninety year old body could have embalmed himself better. What a waste of my time. My twin complained incessantly about the smell, the sounds, the sights, the thought of being there... blah blah blah. Shut the fuck up. Luckily her barn manager finally came back from Florida so I am home.
How can someone who has everything she claims to want and is doing something she claims to love be so damn miserable? I don't understand it. We obviously grew up in the same environment. Had the same abusive asshole parents. I am perfectly happy with myself. Hell, my self-esteem is great. Yet she is literally killing herself and is severely depressed. I don't understand.
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