cracking chests

and crotch rockets

I have a friend who works as a surgical nurse doing organ transplants.

She has a fairly dark sense of humor. When somebody drives by on a high-powered motorcycle, she regularly quips: I hope they signed their organ donor card.

Not many people have carried a living liver on a piece of saran wrap as often as she has.

For a while, she switched to palliative care.

That work did not suit her.

I really miss popping open a chest, she mused. There’s just something intoxicating about the sound of cracking ribs.

Your violence, cruelty and demented nature can serve humanity.

It’s all a matter of context.