So let me start by clarifying something, because I’ve been picking up on a vibe through direct messages. Carly Simon nailed it back in the ’70s with You’re So Vain. If you’re reading this and think it’s about you—well, it’s not. The only people who consistently get called out here are “what’s-his-name” and myself. If I’ve got an issue with someone’s actual behavior, I’ll have that conversation directly, not through this blog.

 

Now, with that out of the way, let’s talk about dark humor.

 

Yes, this is going to get graphic. Yes, I’m giving you fair warning. No, you’re not clicking away—because now you’re wondering, “What the hell is he about to say?”

 

I spent 15 years in the Army, 5 in EMS, and 25 in nursing and nurse practitioner roles. If you’ve ever met anyone from those professions, you know that the humor tends to be… well, dark. Sardonic. Inappropriate for polite company. And it isn’t because we’re cold or cruel—it’s because sometimes, the only way to survive what you see is to laugh at it. That kind of humor isn’t meant to offend; it’s a coping mechanism.

 

In fact, after I left the Army, a psychiatrist told me point-blank: “Most veterans with PTSD end up in EMS, fire, law enforcement, or nursing.” And he wasn’t wrong. My years in EMS and later in healthcare sharpened my gallows humor to what I like to call demigod level.

 

Fast forward to May 2023. After a brutal twelve-hour shift with four acute admissions and one locked seclusion, I came home fried, barely functioning. I walked in with Pax, coffee brewing, ready to mindlessly scroll TikTok and maybe log into PlayStation. Fallout, my escape of choice, was already a sore subject in the house.

 

And then—well, most of you know what I found that morning. This isn’t about that discovery. This is about what came after.

 

When the police arrived, they followed the usual procedure: ask questions, document everything, interview the spouse (me). At no point did I feel like a suspect, but there was a spotlight on me nonetheless. At some point during that long, surreal night, I made a dark joke—something I don’t even remember now. The detective looked at me sideways, but one of the officers turned to him and said, “The guy’s a veteran. That’s how we cope.”

 

He wasn’t wrong. Misery doesn’t just love company; it recognizes it. That officer and I had a moment of unspoken understanding. He even went out of his way to call in a police social worker, who gave me a practical cheat sheet of what to do next—something concrete to hold onto when my world had just cracked open.

 

Weeks later, when toxicology finally came back (because contrary to CSI and NCIS, nothing is instant), the detective followed up. He admitted he didn’t think my humor was “appropriate” for the situation. Which made me laugh harder. Because who should know better than a cop that gallows humor is survival instinct? It’s either laugh or scream at the universe. And I know which one I’ll pick, every time.

 

So yes—my humor is dark. Always has been. Always will be. And if you’re judging me for it, that’s fine. My dog and my mom approve, and honestly? That’s the only jury that matters.