Hello, nonexistent readers.
I’m currently sitting in bed, procrastinating the process of getting ready for the night. There’s nothing I love more than going to bar and getting uncomfortably hammered with a group of my sisters, but the time spent getting ready can really be torture. I don’t even understand the point; by the end of the night there is a 100% chance that my makeup will resemble that of Amy Winehouse.
I have been advised to not get drunk tonight. Obviously I’m ignoring this advice, but I guess it’s probably important that I warn my sisters to watch me. This is because yesterday, I gave a pint of blood for the Homecoming blood drive.THAT was an experience. If you’ve never given blood, this is how it works:
You go to a vacant gym and sit in line for about four days. They give you this binder and you have to pretend to read all this shit about how if you do crack or have AIDs you can’t donate. They make a huge deal about it too, and I’m just like, If you have AIDS, I’m pretty sure you’ve got much more shit to deal with than not being able to donate blood. Then, when they finally call your time, you go sit in this tiny booth made out of huge pieces of cardboard. At one point I sneezed and one of the damn things actually fell over.
At this point a lady in a lab coat makes sure you qualify. Last year I didn’t because I had gone to the Dominican Republic seven months earlier. They were like, “Yeah, sorry, you might have Malaria”. Are you fucking kidding me? I’m pretty sure I don’t have malaria, I don’t live in a fucking marsh. I get it, there are rules. But come on. So you get on a laptop and answer like a hundred incredibly personal questions. Shit like, “Have you had sex with a prostitute in the past 9 months?”, and “Have you ever had a sexual relationship with a male who has had a sexual relationship with another male?”. I can’t even imagine the number of people who lie about that shit. I’m not saying everyone lies on the questionnaire… but everyone lies on the questionnaire.
So I get through all that shit, and this douche in a lab coat takes me and sets me up on this metal bed that looks like it came straight out of a Saw movie. The guy starts looking for my veins as he’s marking up my arm and rubbing this gross smelling sterilizing shit on it. I’m being a total champ about the whole thing, by the way. I’m not like those pussies who freak out and tell everyone they think they’re going to pass out. Most people had a friend there to hold their hand, meanwhile I’m sitting by myself googling irregular dick pics to text my friends. Like a boss. But the whole thing was awkwardly quiet. I start thinking, this guy probably thinks I’m really nervous or something. So right as he starts to stick the needle, no, I’m sorry, the cocktail straw in my arm, I jokingly add, “Oh yeah, that’s a good one. That’s my go-to heroin vein.”
Obviously I was kidding. But this guy retracts his arm so fast I thought he was going to fall over. It was like someone cried “bomb” in airport security. He starts asking me a thousand questions like, “When was your last use?” and all this shit. I’m like, chill doc, I was fucking joking. Just trying to ease the tension, I mean, you’re about to stick a noodle in my arm and retract a vat of fluid. I’m just a tiny bit uncomfortable.
But this guy doesn’t believe me. He seriously thinks I do heroin. Like, are you serious? You think I look like someone that does fucking heroin? Not only am I NOT a forty year old hooker, but I’m way too lame for that shit. So now I start to get upset with him. This guy is talking so loudly that he’s actually starting to make a scene. I can only imagine what people are thinking when they turn to see who the Doctor is lecturing on about heroin use, and it turns out to be a ginger in a sorority spirit jersey and uggs. But hey, drugs don’t discriminate.
Moral of the story: Don’t talk about doing heroin. Also, don’t do heroin. We all know what happened to Richie Rich.