Blood, Blood Everywhere

I donated blood today.

I hate donating blood.

But here's what I'm thinking. I am healthy, I am strong, and I am a pretty rare blood type. B positive. Shout out to all my B-posi posse! Ahem. Since I am all of these things, I can't really justify not doing it. It's easy, it really helps people, you feel like a badass when you're done, and they give you free movie tickets. We all know the things I'll do for a free movie (and if you don't, feel free to ask me when we're alone and you have a free movie ticket crammed down your pants).

My iron levels are solid. So, this time, they requested that I donate double red blood cells. Instead of just letting your blood fill the little sack, double red blood cell donation means that they drain you, pump the plasma back in with saline, take some more blood, and pump the plasma in again. I'm not crazy about blood leaving my body, much less having a machine put it back in. But, the little woman taking down all my info (Have I had sex with a man who has had sex with a man since 1977? Have I ever! Oh, wait...) just got all excited about it and I felt stupid saying "No, I don't feel like saving more lives today."

Now the first problem was that this process takes about three times as long. As luck would have it, they had no chairs left with televisions near them. I hate the sight of the blood leaving my body and need all the help I can get taking my mind off it, so I was immediately nervous. I felt sick. I felt like running. Then, I felt excited because the nurse brought me Cosmo and the main article this month was "12 Sex Secrets you'll be SHOCKED to Know!" So I was all in at that point.

The needle entered my left arm through the middle vein. It hurt like a motherfucker. I focused on reading about the sex tips that I can't remember anymore and gritted my teeth. Melissa gave me calcium pills to chew on, since the anti-coagulant in the plasma solution makes you all tingly and weird if you're sensitive, which I am. Apparently the calcium battles the tingles, which has to come in handy at some point in real life. I tried to read my magazine and regain the feeling in my lips.

I have a real problem squeezing the little stress ball they give you. It keeps your veins open, and helps the blood flow out. I know that it's a good idea to use it. I just have this nagging fear in my head that says if I squeeze it too hard, either a copious amount of blood will flow out at once and spill onto the floor, or the needle will shoot out of my arm. I have to keep reminding myself that this is what everyone throughout time has done while donating, and for once it's good to let peer pressure make me do something I don't want to. That very thing happens to be squeezing the little stress ball in the shape of a hedgehog-looking animal with "Outpost.com" stamped on the side. Quit pissing and moaning about it, G money. No needle will shoot from your arm, otherwise no flobotomists would be employed at the place more than thirty seconds, since needles would hit them in their jugulars and asses and eyes about every other second and send them to the emergency room.

It's about this time that I begin to recall that I fucking hate donating blood.

The magazine lost its charm as I started to fuzz out. I tried to focus on my current editing project and decide where to go next. Zero interest in that. I attempted speech, but only babbled on about Kojak and how much I love his bald head (and no one was listening). I drank juice. It perked me up, but did nothing for the restlessness. I did everything to keep going, but I was mentally shutting down. I was just scared and wanted to get the fuck out of there, you know? So, I did then what I do every time I feel super uncomfortable somewhere but I have to stay put and stay sane. I focused on my most recent sexual experience, reliving every moment and every detail that I could remember. Smells, tastes, amount of light in the room, times I heard my toes crack, the pressure that I bit my lip with. Everything. From beginning to end, no detail too small.

The way the sheets felt against my skin. The giggles, the breaths, the sounds. The breeze. The color of the light in the room. The water that I gulped down greedily while trying to slow my heart rate. How fucked up my hair got and how much it made me laugh when I glanced in the mirror. Kisses. And the rest of it. You know what I mean.

It worked.

All of a sudden, my body said, "Open up and let the surge of plasma flow unhindered! We've got a live one here!" and my veins obeyed. It was over in a flash and everyone was somewhat unnerved by the huge grin on my face. They thought I was woozy and was going to pass out. Little did they know, they had a much better reason to be uncomfortable than that! I was not in fact woozy--I was thinking about the merits of having sex doggie-style, as well as theories about its' certain popularity among the ladies. Ha ha, I tricked them. Perhaps at one point they thought I was beaming because I was saving lives and was light-headed, but it was actually because I was thinking about orgasm. Ha ha! I'm not nearly as good a person as they thought! Booyah!

So, I don't have to go back for 115 days. And they gave me not ONE, but TWO passes for Pacific movie theaters. Who wants to go with me?! You buy the popcorn...

hit it. g