After getting out of class today, I stumbled upon a huge, tie-dye looking turd of a bus, and thought, “Fuckin’ A, a blood drive… Count ME IN!” While I realized that perhaps this may not be a good time to give blood (errands to be run, things to do, fix friend’s car up, etc. etc.); I went anyway.
Looking for an entrance I saw this hapless blue tarp, with a little puffy college kid underneath it, her cadaverous and ashen complexion reminding me of every reason not to donate blood. I think she was albino, and smelled like a pound of sun lotion. Nonetheless, I inquired, “Is this the blood drive bus?” She nodded, with this deviant, primitive grin akin to a demonic cave child, and then pointed to the left, “Gotta go up them steps, mister Cunningham.” What is this, 19th century London? And how did she know my name was Cunningham? To my left, I saw the door, narrow stairway and all. I turned back to the delinquent in front of me and slapped her in the face, “Whore”, as I went on my way.
For the purposes of confidentiality, I will call Charles Witherson III, Alfred Miers.
So guess what? He happened to a professional gay man, that spent his hours within this air-conditioned bus, taking the life from young men such as myself. While I pondered his absurd and hyper-feminine vocal chords, he pushed the needle into my arm, and I felt no pain. He was, for lack of a better word, wonderful at this. And this is why I thought he must be a dangerous man. But as he was trying to tell me something, important, I believe, I paid zero attention. And instead, watched the warm red tube running out of my arm completely absorbed, and fascinated.
Suddenly, I looked up, and realized, he was just taking a bunch of bottles of my blood that would serve as a keepsake of our encounter, and I was stunned and strangely, flattered, that he cared so much about us. I looked away as I blushed intensely, looking at my dapper reflection in the window. Don’t be a fool… he’ll never love you the way you are… My inner wonderings were beginning to take over, as I nearly passed out from the lack of oxygen in my brain.
As the time passed, I felt taken advantage of. I felt, threatened and alone, like every Radiohead song. Nothing to keep me company but the indomitable sense of being that I shared with this lone hanging, little bag of DNA. How, cute… I commented within my solitude. Where was my guitar? What is Thom Yorke doing tonight, and why don’t I have his number anymore? Oh, of course…absinthe…
The warm tubes spiraling down my arms felt like a strange sneaky little animal, one that was also a part of me — one that would keep me company for as long as I needed, until I saw the white light even. The gay man that took my blood, was looking at me now… changing his apron to a pink one with frills and little embroidered pictures of colorful children across the front, all holding hands, and rejoicing in his homosexuality. From across the bus, his teeth, perfectly white, constantly checking his dark, perfect hair in the mirror, he reminded me of someone I once knew…
But he was…no longer with us…
Another interesting point that I’d like to touch upon was the fact that all blood donation facilities were in cahoots with the same linoleum tile-floor makers. I know, that this was at heart a selfish observation, and I don’t listen to Cat Power at night, but, someone had to mention it. Someone has to stand up for the proletariat. Someone has to give blood and notice this utterly pointless shit.
In the end, I ate a bag of shitty cookies, and had some orange juice, which are both part 1 of the only real reason I care about giving blood. Seriously. If it weren’t for the excuse of eating trashy food, the feelings of loss-of-blood-syndrome, and the sensitivity of Alfred, then I seriously doubt anyone would be interested in giving their precious, god-soaked blood to someone not as important as they. Part 2 of my selfish reasoning, is obviously to follow, but below are some of the reasons people give blood. Link provided here.
Giving blood is important, but which of these profiles fit you?
Part 2: Beer.
Moreover, one of my favorite things to do in life is to not listen to people that are smarter, wiser, and more likely to succeed in life. Which is why when Alfred told me not to drink beer, I decided that I should ultimately, drink an entire 4 pack of my favorite beer on planet earth, Boddingtons, Pub Ale. I can’t even believe I am writing this now because according to Alfred, I should be on a ghostly gurney headed to the city morgue. But seriously… how can anyone turn down the silky sunshine yellow and bold blue sheen (or black, blue or black, which is it!? it’s a surprise!) of the can’s quality design?
I answer, “Not I, sir. Not I.”