🎄Kat🎄 @katykat1417 - Twitter Profile

over 1 year ago

i don’t claim the money for almost any of my songs besides edamame, lalala & gravy collabs. gamers, animators, etc… go crazy 💅 go make your bag 🙂‍↕️

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hk$

@1highklass

over 1 year ago

don't ignore the happy little onion and you will have the best year ever

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Trooper Ben

@TrooperBenKs

over 1 year ago

When I’m told I need to deliver a death notification, the weight of it hits me immediately. My chest tightens, my stomach sinks, and my heart skips a beat. I know I’m about to share news that will change someone’s life forever. When I arrive at the home, I knock on the door and take a step back. I often see the family through a window, walking through their living room. They wave or smile at me, trying to greet me warmly. That moment is incredibly hard because I can’t smile back—I know I’m about to bring them the darkest moment of their life. When they open the door, they usually ask, “What’s wrong? What happened?” That’s when I begin by confirming their name and if I’m at the correct address. Once I know I’ve got the right person, in the right place, I notice something I’ve seen many times before—they start taking small steps back, almost fading away from me. I don’t think they even realize they’re doing it. I think it’s their body trying to create distance from an unwelcome moment, knowing deep down that something devastating is about to be said. Then, I deliver the most difficult words anyone could ever hear: “It’s my sad responsibility to tell you that your son has died in a crash.” “It’s my sad responsibility to tell you that your daughter has died in a crash.” “It’s my sad responsibility to tell you that your mother has died in a crash.” “It’s my sad responsibility to tell you that your father has died in a crash.” In those moments, I often see one of three reactions: 1. They collapse. Some fall to the floor, crying in a way that’s impossible to describe. I kneel beside them, and often, I cry with them. 2. They go silent. Others stand frozen, their faces blank as they try to process what I’ve said. They’re lost, unsure of how to move forward. 3. They push me away. Sometimes, I’m told to leave or forcefully pushed back as they yell, “No! Don’t say that!” But I stay because no one should face that moment alone. These moments stay with me and the family involved. Tonight is a night meant for celebration—a time to welcome the new year, look forward to fresh opportunities, and start anew. It shouldn’t begin with tragedy and heartbreak. Please make safe choices tonight. Don’t drink and drive. Use a designated driver. Protect yourself and your loved ones from the pain of ever having to face this kind of moment. Be safe, Trooper Ben

TrooperBenKs's tweet photo. When I’m told I need to deliver a death notification, the weight of it hits me immediately. My chest tightens, my stomach sinks, and my heart skips a beat. I know I’m about to share news that will change someone’s life forever.

When I arrive at the home, I knock on the door and take a step back. I often see the family through a window, walking through their living room. They wave or smile at me, trying to greet me warmly. That moment is incredibly hard because I can’t smile back—I know I’m about to bring them the darkest moment of their life.

When they open the door, they usually ask, “What’s wrong? What happened?” That’s when I begin by confirming their name and if I’m at the correct address. Once I know I’ve got the right person, in the right place, I notice something I’ve seen many times before—they start taking small steps back, almost fading away from me. I don’t think they even realize they’re doing it. I think it’s their body trying to create distance from an unwelcome moment, knowing deep down that something devastating is about to be said.

Then, I deliver the most difficult words anyone could ever hear:
“It’s my sad responsibility to tell you that your son has died in a crash.”
“It’s my sad responsibility to tell you that your daughter has died in a crash.”
“It’s my sad responsibility to tell you that your mother has died in a crash.”
“It’s my sad responsibility to tell you that your father has died in a crash.”

In those moments, I often see one of three reactions:
1. They collapse. Some fall to the floor, crying in a way that’s impossible to describe. I kneel beside them, and often, I cry with them.
2. They go silent. Others stand frozen, their faces blank as they try to process what I’ve said. They’re lost, unsure of how to move forward.
3. They push me away. Sometimes, I’m told to leave or forcefully pushed back as they yell, “No! Don’t say that!” But I stay because no one should face that moment alone.

These moments stay with me and the family involved.

Tonight is a night meant for celebration—a time to welcome the new year, look forward to fresh opportunities, and start anew. It shouldn’t begin with tragedy and heartbreak.

Please make safe choices tonight. Don’t drink and drive. Use a designated driver. Protect yourself and your loved ones from the pain of ever having to face this kind of moment.

Be safe,
Trooper Ben

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🎄Kat🎄

@katykat1417

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