The Hunt Part 2: Desperate Times

When I received my seventeenth copy of "Oh The Places You'll Go" upon graduating from college, one of the places Dr. Suess failed to mention was back to my parent's house. I am a stereotype. An out of work college grad living in my old room and selling my plasma as a means of financial support. I am the dregs of humanity, the swirly brown stuff at the bottom of society's teacup. I realized this while sitting for four hours in the waiting room at the plasma donation center, tucked between a handsy young couple of high school dropouts and a woman who looked like she'd murdered her dog and glued it to her head (I nicknamed them the Poodle and the Canoodles). Together we watched Gone In Sixty Seconds, The Mummy 3: Curse of the Dragon Emperor, and Gone In Sixty Seconds for a second time. One a side note: Transformers 2 has now been replaced by the Mummy 3 as the Number 1 worst movie I've ever seen. Although I feel like the Canoodles weren't really paying attention.

I clutched my copy of The Brothers Karamzov in a petulant attempt to retain some small shred of my dignity. However that was shattered when I asked the phlebotomist why they wore the clear plastic face shields.

“For blood splatters.”

Great. I really needed that image of my blood spraying this poor woman like a Jackson Pollack painting.
My friend Mij keeps me encouraged at moments like this. She was the one who instigated the plasma adventure and who remarks with good cheer on how we’re saving lives with our donation.  While I am morosely quoting Romeo and Juliet to myself “My poverty but not my will consents” she will happily chat and make friends with every one around us. She doesn't refer to our endeavors as “whoring out our blood cells” and I doubt she would see the irony in me watching The Biggest Loser. Although, I must say The Biggest Loser is an upgrade from my earlier days watching Millionaire Matchmaker. At least it’s inspirational, and provides me with a variety of opportunities for sarcasm. I’m sorry but you cannot say phrases like “I wish I was half the man he was” or “I had to jump over a lot of hurdles to get here” and not expect a snarky response.

Mij also probably would have managed more than polite disinterest in the bleary-eyed Radison doorman with his high-demand O negative blood. Especially as he questioned me:

"Didn't you go to college to figure out what you wanted to do?"

Well yes I did. And no I still have no idea. And yes, I am an English major and realize some of these sentences are technically incomplete, but bear with me for the sake of this lovely conversational rapport we‘re developing. I don't know what I want to do with my life. If I did I'd like to think I'd be well on my way to achieving it, because I'm an absolute bear when I get it into my head that I can do something. But I can't see the path. All I can see at this moment is my dog Roxie who has pulled her head under the blanket and is completely hidden underneath. I understand the sentiment. Most days I would like to do the same. However, I have an 8 a.m. appointment at the plasma center, so I have to get out of bed.