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Because I Don't Have Enough Problems

It's shit like this...

...that really pisses me off.

Here I am, minding my own business, trolling the internet for the newest headlines (on company time, of course—I'm all about full disclosure), when BAM!, my mind is suddenly flooded with the image of a mangled 737 plummeting to the ground.

The woman in seat 9B catches my eye. With sheer terror on her face, she coddles her screaming toddler for the last time. The Dora coloring books the girl scribbled in moments before fly to the back of the plane, as the elderly businessman in the seat over holds his blackberry firmly to his ear. Oxygen masks swing violently overhead as he informs his wife of 49 years, on their answering machine, that he won't be returning home. He whispers "I love you," tears streaming from his ice blue eyes, then asks that she hug each of their children for him.
She doesn't retrieve the message until later that afternoon. The groceries for their dinner fall to the floor.

The United Airlines plane, or what's left of it, crashes into the middle of suburban Utah, killing not only all 211 passengers on board, but also the 16 year-old girl in the yellow, two-story house they crash into—the girl, tragically, had returned home just moments before, after taking her 3 year-old Golden Retriever, Eppe, for a walk. Eppe, now deaf and somewhat skittish from the explosion, survived the crash.

The woman in the neighboring house was severely maimed by the shrapnel that rained down on her as she pruned her roses in the front yard. After being med-vac'd to the trauma unit, the 52 year-old, breast cancer survivor died. Not from the loss of blood caused by two severed legs, but by an overdose of tramadol, administered by a seasoned anesthesiologist, who, incidentally, had too many glasses of scotch the night before, after learning his oldest son—married with children—was gay.

Okay, wait. Let's be honest here. There was no toddler or golden retriever named Eppe; it was me I saw on that crashing plane and pruning those roses. But my narcissism is besides the point. You, you darling little ad maker, put me through all of this just to tell me tort reform is bad? A little melodramatic, don't cha think?

This post first appeared on Confessions Of A Hypochondriac, please read the originial post: here

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Because I Don't Have Enough Problems


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