I caught a fever

I caught a fever.  I woke up this morning feeling pretty normal, but then, when I was watching the Today Show, something funny started to happen inside me.  I felt kinda tingly and giddy... off kilter. 

And that's when I realized. 

I caught it. 

I caught Bieber Fever. 

Godammit. 

I was minding my own business!  I wasn't exposing myself to dangerous contagions!  I was clean!

But then Matt Lauer was interviewing The Biebs and everything got a bit goofy.  It turns out that Matt just joined the twitter, and he made the mistake of asking The Biebs to help him with his first tweet. 

True to form, the little dude genius took Matt's phone, and tweeted this:

HAHAHAHahahahahahahaha!

What a sucker.  He totally handed over his phone - and his first ever tweet - to an 18 year old pop star with 25 million twitter followers.  GOOD IDEA MATT. 

And then I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. 

But afterward, I began to get sucked in...  Not only is he an 18 year old genius, but that Boyfriend song is actually really catchy.  And he's a good little dancer, isn't he?  And Canadian.  We can't forget Canadian.  Be still my heart. 

There's no hope for me.  I'm lost.  This fever will consume me and I will forever be wandering the wasteland of what was once my adult life, wondering where all my responsible friends and family members have gone...

Sure, Hubby may stick by me for a while, but for how long?  How long can he deal with a tragically and hopelessly ill Wifey?  Not long.  He may have stood by me through Asshole Depression and Bastard Anxiety, but not this.  This is too much.  Now he knows I've truly gone insane. 

There's no going back. Farewell, cruel world.  Farewell. 

Baby, baby, baby, Ohhhhhhh...

Good thing I'm not a vampire. I don't like blood.

Who likes needles?

Nobody.  Nobody likes needles. 

Unless you like heroin.  Maybe then.  But otherwise?  Needles are sharp scary weapons that should be eliminated from medical necessity altogether.  In my opinion. 

Now.  I am NOT a "Needle Nancy".  Needles don't bother me.  I'm not a fan, but I don't get lightheaded like some people (ahem-Hubby-ahem).  ...Which is weird, given the whole anxiety problem. 

Despite my tolerance, I'm certainly not pleased when a needle is required in my forearm, rather than my shoulder.  THIS, my friends, is disturbing.  A forearm needle is an entirely new level of discomfort beyond one's natural fear of being stabbed with a small metal stick.  

So this morning, when the blood clinic awaited, I wasn't exactly rushing out the door.  No.  I took my time.  I putsed around and nodded off and played with my cats.  As any good procrastinator does. 

Once I finally arrived at the clinic (soaked from rain and starving from the required 12 hour food fast), I wasn't aware of how irritating this whole process would actually be. 

First, I had to take a number. 

Then I had to sit in a chair and watch Regis and Kelly with a room full of strangers like like a pack of lobotomy victims. 

They called my number and I gave them my forms. 

The girl looked at my sheet and asked "Are you pregnant?"

"Um, no.  Not yet."

She sent me to sit back down. 

Waiting. 

Stomach growling. 

Anxiety rising. 

They called my name. 

"This way.  The nurse will be here in a minute."

Waiting. 

She arrived, a nice lady with cool hair.  "Hi Marianna.  Oh, are you pregnant?"

Apparently I look fat today.  "No..."

"Did you eat today?"

Yep, clearly looking really fat.  "No.  Can't you hear my stomach?"

This is when the hell began.  You see, I happen to have a reasonable fear of needles (unlike irrational people out there).  I have teeny tiny veins.  Narrow little baby veins that have no interest in sharing their contents. 

So of course Nursey spent several minutes tying a tourniquet on my arm, smacking me, pinching me, and generally cursing at my uselessness. 

She eventually stabbed me ("Ouch!") and went on to explain how she had to shove it in there further than normal and pull it back out in order to get any blood. 

WHAT. THE. FUCK. 

She proceeded to complain about the government and the health care system while I looked in the opposite direction listening to the sound of my life's liquid flowing from my body at the mercy of some crazy woman with cool hair.   

When she was done, I looked over and gasped.  There were eight - yes EIGHT - vials of my hot red blood on the desk next to me.  EIGHT.

What the hell?  Is she gonna sell it on the black market? Christ. 

I left, back into the rain, wolfing down two granola bars and complaining to myself about the pain in my arm.  When I arrived at work with cotton taped to my arm, someone asked if I just gave blood. 

GAVE IT?  Fuck no.  They TOOK it.  Thieving bastards.