Is It Because I Lied When I Was Seventeen?

I donated platelets again today, but thankfully Mr. Garden Clogs wasn't there. There was an equally annoying gal in there, though. If you've ever given blood you know the drill. You're up on this gurney thing and you can't move your arm, etc. Well, I settle in after the big needle is inserted and neatly taped snug to my arm and try and mentally prepare for the drip. If you haven't given platelets before, it's different than the kind at a blood drive. They take your blood out, remove the plasma and platelets and then put the red stuff back in. This process takes forever. You could literally drive to Tulsa and back before they get what they want out of you. And since I have the universal blood type and such a high platelet count, they want all of mine they can get. So I have to be there for two and a half hours. I have to get psyched up to do it because I just can't sit still that long. They do have TV, which helps some, but not much. Well, anyway, today there was a woman two beds down from me and out of the very corner of my peripheral vision I pick up this movement. And it doesn't stop, so I turn over to look and she's bicycling in the air - she's on her back and her feet are up in the air and she's aircycling. And she goes on for an hour like this, including pounding her feet on the padding like she's running in place. The nurses kept going by and asking if her circulation was bad, or did she need to go to the restroom; they were getting really worried she was going to knock the needle out, but she just let out a guffaw and said, "No, I'm just distracting myself." I wanted to say, "No, you're distracting everyone else!"

To compound my agony, the nurse had given me the remote to the TV. I really wanted to turn it over to ESPN, but I left it where it was because I assumed Lance Armstrong over there wouldn't want to watch Around the Horn. So I suffered through Judge Hatchett and an hour of Judge Judy. I spent most of the time mentally and spiritually kicking my own ass for being so concerned about the feelings of others. I felt like one of Asimov's androids in I, Robot, unable to do harm to humans. The only solace I could find was in what I call Koestler Moments. Ever read Darkness at Noon by Arthur Koestler? If not, you should. It's very applicable to real life. I figured that while it was true I did not deserve this fresh hell (I did not copy you, Queen, I got it from Dot herself), I must have done something at sometime and gotten away with it and this was fitting punishment for that. At the very least, I figured doing volunteer work ought to hurt at least a little. Don't want the Lone Cricket stalking me...

One night last week, Tex brought over a birthday gift for The Killer. I have to tell you, Tex, she has gone crazy over it. She had already memorized the monthly birthstones from her almanac and she was carrying the new book around church asking everyone their birthday. And then she'd tell them, not all emeralds are green y'know...

Le Booga Bag c'est accompli.