I donated blood this afternoon. And I'd pretend I did it out of the kindness of my own random heart, but no. I was coming through on a favor for a friend who organized the blood drive. They needed blood. I happen to have blood. So, you know.

I like to pretend I'm hardcore, what with the nose piercing and tattoos and other needle wielding body modifications, but that is a lie. Perhaps you remember the boob procedure? Because I remember the boob procedure. And to those who do not remember, no, it was not a boob job. It was a OMG IS THAT SKIN CANCER?! job.

Doctor took a knife to my boob and did some dicing and stitching. I hardly survived. WIMP.

And so, when nurse figures start coming at me with needles and shit - hells no. I've go to look away. I've got to sing to myself. I've got to go to my happy place. Today I just turned up the volume on my iPod. It was Michael Jackson, FYI.

And I thought I had survived, unscathed. But then, see, I start thinking about what's going on in my arm. I think about the needle. I think about the blood. I think about the pressure I feel on the inside of my elbow and know it's a needle in my vein.

And... damn.

There I do all nauseous-y and warm, and there's the nurse with a cool cloth on my forehead, reclining my chair to the laying position.

I AM THAT GIRL.

Shoot.

So, I tried. I gave my blood. I did my civic duty. But when it comes to being a big girl? FAIL.

krittabug