CMT: Country Music Torture

Being low on blood is not a good thing (if you ever find yourself bleeding profusely from several orifices, I suggest you get that looked at). Because this vital fluid is inimitable and donated blood is a life saving necessity for millions, I give away my primo blood as frequently as I can. Just imagine, if you ever cut your arm off or something, the doctors could potentially be placing my blood in your body. That's a neat thought, isn't it? You would be, like, 3% cooler.

Anyway, I was at a blood drive a few months ago where I intended to give a double red blood cell donation, which basically just means the process would be twice as long as usual. I walked into the room, becoming aware that there was a large screen on which something was being projected, and began filling out a questionnaire - one of those designed to ensure that your blood is free of viruses and disease, that asks stuff like, "Have you ever had sex with a hypodermic needle?" I couldn't recall that I had, so I checked "No".

The next step was generally a painless prick of the finger to test the iron of my blood. However, this time, I think the poor woman misread the direction of "gently press against finger" as "stab violently into bone, bruising finger for three days." At least she tried to make up for it with a compliment: "Your iron looks really good, sweety." Uh, thanks?

"It's a little piece of paradise," I heard being sung. "Way out here in the woods." I reclined in what would be my seat for the next hour or so. "There's always something going on," I cringe. "Down in the trailerhood." I squirm in my seat. Yes, country music videos - the bane of my existence, the ever-present mucus in my ears, the spoiled milk in the refrigerator of the music industry - were being displayed mockingly on a jumbo-tron screen worthy of Jerry Jones.

I grab the nurse violently by the collar and scream, "I meant to check 'yes'! I did it! My blood is unclean! Get me out of here, now! Please!" I snap back to reality. "Okay, looks good," the woman informs me politely. She had pierced my arm with a pencil-width needle without me even noticing. I sat silently and prayed for the vampiric machine to suck the life out of me before I was subjected to any more songs about abusive husbands, cowboys, or tractors. "God, I don't ask you for much, but if I could just pass out for like half-an-hour..." My prayer went unanswered.

Feeling as if I were being water-boarded, I began to meditate and focus solely on the changing color of my forearm, to keep my mind off the pain: tan to red, red to purple, purple to - is this Reba!? "Come on, think of a good song... 'Once upon a time there was light in my life, but now there's only love in the dark. Nothing I can say; total eclipse of my achy breaky heart, I just don't think it'd understand.'" I emitted a scream of ultimate suffering. The poison had overtaken my subconscious.

Upon finishing the donation, I walked numbly over to the refreshment area to to get a snack (if you don't fill up pretty quickly, you tend to get a little fainty).  As I gazed at the abomination before me, I gobbled down Nutty Bars like Snooki would pickles. I felt utterly desensitized, like a young soldier who returns home utterly broken by the horrors of war. No longer was I disgusted. No longer was I even human; I was a zombie.

I stammered out the door and to my car. The engine revved and the radio clicked into action. "I don't know how I can do without - I just need you now." I didn't change the station - in fact, I hummed the tune. I pulled out of the parking lot with a smile on my face. "Ya know, I could get used to this." I then drove off a cliff and died. The end.