Bloody Wonderful
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I admit to having odd inclinations, the least weird of which is donating blood.
(Squeamish people … cowboy up. I’ll talk you into bleeding like I talk everybody into it).
About four times a year I clomp over to the Red Cross offices and flirt with some nice young gal who assaults me with long needles. We talk about anything aside from politics and exes, since agitating someone with sharp implements is never good policy. Being an expert bleeder, I’m out of the chair and eating my weight in post-spew cookies in record times (truth be told, one of my motivations for giving blood are the cookies, an almost innocent sin).
Now here is where you come in. You will donate blood, even if you are the biggest wimp since the last person I dragged to the donation center (she actually whimpered). Know how I know this? Because I know you will read the next paragraph.
Here is what I want you to do: Imagine the person you love most in the world has been seriously slammed in an auto accident, is laying on an emergency ward table, and the doctors says to the nurse “What do you mean we’re out of blood?”
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