Paul Hill was executed for the fatal shooting of a doctor and his wife, family health professionals who cared for and counseled women during termination of pregnancy, as well as the diagnosis and treatment of sexually transmitted diseases, pre and post natal care, all important and vital for women’s health. His day went something like this. He had his last meal. A well done steak, broccoli with hollandaise, which I like and would probably have said – “I’ll have what he’s having”, if I were executed along with him that day. I think there was some orange sherbet for dessert (gross – only a dorky murderer would like ‘sherbet”), and iced tea along with it. After that, he had some time with his friends and family. They got to hug, say their goodbyes. How do you say goodbye for something like that. Is there a Hallmark card made for that particular occasion?

“Rest in Peace…whenever you get there!”
“Tell the Big Guy I said Hi!”
“Don’t get bummed out…(open the card) “The Governor still might call!”
“How’s it hanging?”
“Congratulations on your lethal injection!”
Then mostly everyone left, except for Paul’s spiritual adviser, who recorded last remarks. Paul said he was honored to die for the cause, that he killed the doctor so that unborn children might live. He was going to cast himself as a martyr until the very end. Although the official Pro-Life movement denounced Paul’s actions, and Gov. Jeb Bush ordered the execution, there were still pro-life extremists outside, fresh from the Alabama courthouse “Ten Commandments” freak show, hoping for his last minute reprieve. That call never came. Paul was given a Valium, to calm him in the hour of his death. An anonymous, hooded executioner, sterilized a spot on his arm with a cotton ball soaked with alcohol (why?), and administered the injection. It takes about fifteen seconds, on average, but some hang on for several minutes, defiantly protesting their innocence, as they feel the parts of their bodies, fingers, toes, legs, arms, chest, and everything after, slowly die. Tore up from the floor up. Paul went faster than the others. He needed to get to God, and he wanted to beat the traffic.

I am not a supporter of execution. It’s inhumane, vicious, irreversible. People who are innocent die all the time. The margin of error makes the entire process too fallible and therefore, obsolete. You cannot bring someone back to life, no matter how much forensic evidence that fully exonerates them is found later. As technology advances, more and more criminals are caught, convicted and sentenced fairly, but those on death row currently will not experience the blind justice of scientific proof. It’s too late for them. They are fucked and they are going to die. Some for no reason whatsoever. As a taxpayer, I hate that I have this blood on my hands, but we are all murderers these days, as the government uses our money to fund their brand new and improved tartar control Taliban.

Boys like the West Memphis Three are convicted of killing three children in a ravine, yet without evidence, merely a backwards Bible thumping, cousin humping community’s suspicion of Satanic cults, dyed black hair, and heavy metal music, and the coerced confused confession one of the three (a boy whose below 73 IQ garnered him a life sentence). They have been incarcerated since 1993, never mind that their innocence has been proved time and time again, not by the courts, but by the documentary crews that have followed the case since the beginning, producing two award winning films and creating a movement calling for their release. Damien, the leader of the three, whose name convicted him just as much as the Alistair Crowley book in his room, who wore all black and sometimes just a touch of eyeliner, became a folk hero. He is on death row, awaiting execution. He is not a boy anymore, but a man. His jet black locks have grown long, unruly and brownish grey, as you cannot get L’oreal Feria Hair Color in Midnight Black at the prison store, no matter how many times you say “Because I’m worth it.” He no longer wears his signature black Robert Smith oversized shirts and trousers. Instead, he wears white from head to toe. His face is lined and tired, yet his suffering has given him an otherworldly gentleness. Winona Ryder writes him letters in jail. I bet he puts them up on the walls of his cell. I am afraid that he’ll die, just like so many innocents before him. There will be more blood on my hands, unwashable and indelible, the Lady Macbeth kind of stain.

Paul Hill is different. This motherfucker be guilty BEYOND THE VALLEY OF a shadow of a doubt. He did it as an act of vigilante justice, as he believed he was saving unborn children. So to save those not yet lives, he killed a fucking doctor. What an asshole. In the name of Pro-life, he does his part, and murders people. What makes me angry about the anti-abortion shitheads is that they are denying the freedom of choice for all women. As if our bodies belonged to them. Pro-choice is not an extreme point of view. It is the right to make your own decisions, and the one to have an abortion is not an easy one. The protesters harass women outside of clinics, acting like there is some house party happening up in there. It’s not Burke Williams you idiots. We are not going in the building for a “Day of Beauty”. No oxygen facials, seaweed detox body wrap, hand and foot fantasy. No kicking back with your homies, bobbing your head to “Nellyville” with a strawberry daquiri in your hand and an iv in your arm, talking ’bout, “I just killed my fetus. How you like me now! Hooo. Hey Shorty – it’s NOT your birthday, it’s NOT your birthday. Hooo.”

I had an abortion, and you know what? It fucking hurts like hell. The fact that the medical community has not made early termination easier and less painful is just another example of how sexist our country is. You lie in a big room, filled with crying teenage girls, pissed off women in their ’20s, someone older like me, reading a Redbook from 1994 and beating myself up at the same time because the rubber broke and I didn’t even fucking like that guy in the first place and then occasionally other random thoughts like ‘wow, I am going to try to bake that at home’, and countless others. We are collectively suffering, because pregnancy feels like there is somebody in there. And for whatever reason, and every reason is the right reason, you can’t have a tenant. So you gotta evict. Nothing personal. The doctor sticks a Cuisinart into the upper reaches of your vagina and turns it on Puree. And then you see that the tenant has checked out, leaving you hollowed out and alone, and all you have to show for it is a bloody hole and a recipe for lemon poppy upside down cake. The secret is to shave lemon rind into the batter, but not too much. It will be bitter if you aren’t careful. You come out, never wanting to have sex again, feeling sick, bleeding like Theresa Saldana after she got stabbed 52 times, and the protesters have the gall to call you a murderer. Fuck you. Seriously. Fucking fuck you.

And the biggest fuck you to you Paul. I hope God gives you a good smack upside your head when He sees you. “That is not what I meant you piece of shit! Get those wings on and get the fuck out of My office! Peter?! Get him out of My sight.”