donates her blood plasma. Drives to Van Nuys to do so.
…for all the wrong reasons.
I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time. And it was okay. Really. Fine. Lovely.
but this, categorically indicates that I’m weird. Off.
I romanticize medicine. medical terminology and understanding. the needle. my flesh. my blood. the centrifuge. and a funny drowsy-ness that might feel like being high.
One drives up there because they think that they will be surrounded by others who would like to donate for the good of humankind. sick people. But it’s a crack shack really. People who refuse to make money any other way.
Another lovely crack shack. A generic ghetto version of Cheers. Everyone knows your name. I’m the new kid. And in the generic ghetto, it usually works for me [but that's another story].
But getting back to the point… what’s worse? What is really worse?
Wanting to intently stare at the large, possibly 9 gauge butterfly needle [syringes are like guns, the lower the gauge, the larger the barrel] pierce your skin and hit your vein. Dark, dark blood (“everyone’s blood is different, but yes your blood is darker then normal” I am assured)… floods the clear tubing and up up up.
Complete certainty. Validation. Everything is right. And the blood is so dark. I feel so much more rich and human. Than anyone in that room. Anyone anywhere. My blood is naturally that dark. That substantial. Naturally.
So, what’s worse?
It’s merely stupid to drive to the valley for 5 hours of prodding and poking and questions if all you’re expecting is $35 in return. And maybe, possibly a generic ghetto Cheers-like atmosphere.
It’s something weird and fucked up to drive to the valley to put up with the prodding and questions when you are expecting the poking in return.
