Pulling into the station

February 25, 2005

I hate needles. Flaming purple passion hate. Hate hate hate hate hate. I hate getting prepped, I hate the finding the vein part, I hate the puncture, I hate the sound it makes, I hate the cold air I swear-to-GOD is coming through the needle. I hate the way the techs tell you to suck it up, it's just a quick draw. I hate the way I always look over just as the blood sloshes into the vial. I hate the freakin' cotton ball "bandaid" they put on you. I hate having to hold that in place while I drive.

So imagine how excited I am to go have not one, but TWO vials of blood drawn today.

I begged. Yes, I actually begged for ANY other way, just no needles please. No, sorry, blood test is the only way they can find out if I'm allergic to some tree out in bumfuck Africa. (Oddly enough, my dad can't go to Zimbabwae or something like that because he's allergic to this tree that grows there. I come from a line of freaks, what can I say? Who else is allergic to African trees and gerbil dander? Okay, I don't know about the gerbil dander, but you catch my drift.)

And if I hear the term "abnormally large" referring to any part of my throat again, I just might scream. Did you know that adnoids can grow back after you've taken them out? Thankfully, tonsils stay gone.

A Trip to the Vampires stopped here at 10:04 a.m.

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