Hey. Hi! Yep, you’re reading the sticker over my left nipple correctly. It says “BLOOD DONOR HERO”. I made it myself. I’m not usually one to call myself a hero, but in this case it’s deserved.
I gave blood today, which means you have to be nice to me! Unlike that dickhead barista at Long John Coffee. He’s so self-involved and refuses to help the community like I do. Just listen to what happened.
I stroll up to the coffee shop about an hour before it opens and wait outside the front door. My face is pressed against the glass with excitement as I stare inside and watch them open up shop. My backpack is stuffed to the brim with jars of one of the rarest blood types: BAC .26.
When they finally open the doors, I rush in because I’m so psyched, you know? As I begin stacking jars on the counter, this failed-artist-turned-latte-engineer started yelling things like “What the fuck?” and “Stop it, we don’t take blood,” and “You’re spilling it all over the counter!” and “I’m calling the cops.”
It’s like, dude, chill out. Hospitals and charities BEG for this stuff, you should be so lucky! Think of how many lives you can save with seven mason jars of blood. To be honest, I don’t even really care what they do with it. But don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
I just wish the world were kinder and more charitable like I am. I’m trying to be the change I see in the world. There are different ways to help, too. For example, I saw a homeless man on my street a few months back. So I gathered all of my hair I had saved over the past few years, glued it together in the shape of a jacket, and chased him down to give it to him. He was screaming with delight. Or heat stroke. It was like 97 degrees outside.
I’m gonna be honest, I’m a little lightheaded and woozy. I’m afraid of needles, so getting one in my vein by myself was difficult. But once the needle was in, I easily extracted about 7 pints of the red stuff. Wait no, 8. I still have one jar in my backpack!
Do you want it?