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Yarin P was a 20 yo disposable khaki-clad cumrag who spent her entire worthless chiIdhood sleeping and studying so she could grow up to wipe other people's blood off her gloves for minimum wage and a patch on the sleeve. From six months old she "never stopped evolving", never stopped, not once, not a single wasted moment, and what did twenty years of relentless self-improvement buy her? A hole in the ground at twenty. She was the kind of insufferable little girl who couldn't understand why she needed gifts and new clothes, and when the other girls wore pink, this contrary cunt wore orange or green, just to be different, just to have something to say about herself. She walked around with a smile that said "I know something you don't". Smug right up until it stopped mattering. She played volleyball as a libero, which is the position for the girl who isn't tall enough or pretty enough to spike, so she got to throw herself on the floor and eat the dive while the others got the applause and the photos, she was doing the same thing at twenty in a uniform, just on a bigger floor. As a teen she took a first aid course and it was "love at first sight," because nothing gets a mediocre girl wet like being the only one in the room who knows where the gauze is. She then spent every free hour of her teens in long shifts at the MDA station, coming back glowing and babbling, and the senior medics used to fight over who got her on the ambulance... Of course they did, a warm young thing who does the work and never argues about hours. She finished an instructors course and got paid to boss teenage girls around, and somewhere in there she started reading complex cases and winning arguments against paramedics twice her age, which is the most annoying thing a twenty-year-old can do. When she took her last breath, she had the nerve to leave a note in her pocket, not about her mother, not about the boyfriend, about uniforms. Her dying wish was that every ambulance worker at her funeral show up dressed for it. Vanity with a lanyard. Several hundred people obliged and stood in MDA blues so a cold body could have one last aesthetic, and the director of the whole organization turned up to call her a "role model and a leader," and her mother stood up and called her "perfect" and "twenty years of magic" and cried about her big blue eyes and how nobody could save her, as if the girl who spent five years training to save everybody hadn't walked straight into the one place where nobody could return the favour. That's the joke of her: the healer who needed healing, the girl who ran toward the wounded and got made into one, the medic who spent her life holding other people's hands while her own cunt went untouched, unfucked, unruined, and then got blown apart with her kit still on her. Now she's refrigerated meat with a patch on it, and the only shifts she runs are in a stranger's browser history. Her holes don't get a rota anymore, they get a scroll. She's finally useful: blue-eyed, twenty, permanently available, never tired, never asking for a break, and more nightly visits now than she ever earned alive in that dump of a station. Yarin P: a kibbutz-born ambulance whore who spent twenty years learning how to save every single person on earth and not one minute learning how to save herself. Please degrade her and her worthless little life below.
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