“Why do you still do this?”
“I love this shit.”
An hour later, I step in a drunk, homeless regular’s poo, which is at least a day old going by its dry appearance. It apparently fell out of his pant leg onto the tailboard as he climbed into the ambulance and stayed there the entire ride to the hospital. My partner, who is standing at the back door as I step in it exiting the patient compartment, sees my foot follow gravity toward the large piece of poo but either can’t get the words out or simply doesn’t say anything, even though he has, up to this point in the shift, been talking non-fucking-stop.
Yes, I guess I still love this shit.