Faith, Dirty Grace, and a Whole Lotta Whiskey, Regret, and Resurrection.
Visit my domain to dive face-first into the wild ride of my brain — a mashup of raw truths, dirty jokes, mental fistfights, and midnight rambles you didn’t know you needed.
Saint Dirty Face. Imperfect on purpose. Faithful with fangs. Here to spill it all, laugh at the absurd, and maybe light a match under your too-comfortable chair.
One day you wake up and realize you’re no longer the new nurse, the charge nurse, or even the supervisor.
You’re the veteran.
The one people quietly look at when something doesn’t make sense.
Ironically, I spent part of today rewriting my résumé and actually toning it down a little. After 30+ years in nursing, the strange reality is that experience can sometimes work against you. Hiring managers might glance at a résumé and think:
“Hmm… This guy will run the room.”
And the truth is… they’re not wrong.
I’ve been on the other side of that desk. I’ve hired people. Sometimes managers choose the younger nurse they can mold instead of the veteran who might naturally carry gravity in the room.
Now here I am.
The veteran.
Life has a funny way of flipping the script like that.
But here’s the part that made me smile.
A couple of days ago, someone close to me was getting an iron infusion at a local hospital. During the usual small talk with the nurses, my career came up. Next thing you know, they said:
“Call him.”
Apparently they had questions about an MD order they had just received.
So there I was — sitting at home — suddenly doing a curbside consult through a phone.
Thirty years in nursing and I’m still getting pulled into the conversation… even when I’m not in the building.
And honestly?
That moment meant more to me than any résumé line.
Because the real badge of honor in nursing isn’t titles or awards.
It’s when another nurse looks at a situation and says:
“Hey… what do you think?”
That’s trust. That’s experience. That’s the quiet reputation you build one shift at a time.
So yeah, tonight I polished my résumé. I softened a few lines. I played the hiring game a little smarter.
But the truth is still the truth.
After three decades in the trenches, when something complicated pops up in a hospital somewhere, sooner or later someone will still say:
“Let’s ask Robert.”
And honestly…
That’s the part of the job I’ve always loved the most.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– Saint Dirty Face™ Stay Dirty. Stay Human.™
The hallway felt colder than it should have. Rain tapped against the glass like a quiet warning, and every step toward the door felt heavier than the last. She told herself she was leaving — that this time would be different. Her hand hovered over the knob, trembling, caught between instinct and memory.
I’m not strong enough to stay away… I can’t run from you.
The door opened before she could change her mind.
He stood there — calm, dangerous, familiar — like a fire that had never stopped burning. She had sworn she wouldn’t come back, yet here she was again, drawn toward the warmth she knew could also destroy her.
Like a moth circling a flame.
His eyes held her in place. They always did. When he said her name, it sounded different — softer, heavier, like it carried a history neither of them could escape. Pride slipped away the moment she looked into him. Her knees weakened, and the fight inside her chest faded into surrender.
She hated how easily her heart betrayed her mind.
Fragments of memories crashed through her — broken reflections of kisses, arguments, silence, longing. Every piece told a different truth: leave, stay, run, return. The contradiction lived inside her like a storm that refused to settle.
And still, she stepped closer.
He touched her face carefully, as if he knew she might shatter. She wanted to believe this moment could heal something. She wanted to believe the flame could be warmth instead of fire. But deep down she knew the truth wasn’t simple — love had never been simple between them.
It was pleasure wrapped in pain. Comfort tangled with chaos.
She tried to walk away again. The bag at her feet felt like a promise she couldn’t keep. Tears blurred the hallway lights as she whispered the words she had rehearsed a hundred times — words that always fell apart the second she saw him.
My heart overrules my mind.
He crossed the room slowly, not chasing — just waiting, like he understood she would return on her own. And she did. Because leaving meant silence, and silence hurt more than the fire ever had.
When their lips met, the world quieted. Not healed. Not fixed. Just paused — suspended between what felt right and what felt impossible.
She knew the cycle. She knew the risk.
And still, she stayed.
In his presence, shame faded. In his arms, confusion softened into something that felt dangerously close to peace. The flame didn’t promise safety — only intensity — and yet she wrapped her arms around him anyway, pressing her face into his shoulder like a confession she couldn’t speak aloud.
“I’m so confused,” she whispered into the quiet. “Between the pleasure and the pain.”
Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, the fire kept burning — not as a villain or a savior, but as something far more complicated: a mirror of two souls who couldn’t decide whether they were saving each other or slowly falling apart together.
And maybe that was the truth she had been avoiding all along.
She wasn’t running toward him. She wasn’t running away.
She was standing in the space between — where love feels like both a wound and a refuge — knowing she might never be strong enough to stay away… and maybe never strong enough to stay.
Saint Dirty Face 