What Do You Want From Me, Blood?

I donated blood today. I’d love to say that I give blood out of a selfless desire to help the needy — and, in fact, I do say when I’m trying impress girls — but the truth is that I hate giving blood, and do it as infrequently as possible. I’d never give blood if the bloodbank guys weren’t so persistent, pursuing like a relentless cyborg sent from the future to hunt down hapless victims, extract their bodily fluids, and then treat them to cranberry juice and sugar cookies.

The problem is that I have AB- blood, which is about as common as a good Ben Stiller movie. I think one in 200 people have it, maybe one in 500, something like that. I couldn’t fall into the top .5% for intelligence or attractiveness or wealth, it had to be freakin’ platelets.

So the bloodbank if forever calling to breathlessly warn me that my blood type is in “very low supply.” And I know that I should just say, “Duh! Plutonium is in very low supply too, that’s how rarity works. And who cares if you don’t have any AB- blood — no one can take it anyway. You’re about as likely to pump a pint of my blood into an accident victim as a quart of yoghurt.”

But instead I solemnly swear to visit my local bloodbank and donate. And one time out of every dozen I’ll actually follow through.

Just blood, though. There’s no way I’m ever going to donate plasma. I don’t see why I should get stuck with a needle just so some rich guy can have a fancy-screened TV.

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