I am here at the vampire’s office, waiting to have the life sucked out of me, drop, by drop, in a slow, agonizing bloodletting extravaganza.
I was there to have my blood tested for all sorts of maladies, most of which I’m likely to have.
At 42, I’m a day away from needing arthritis medication, and I know, absolutely, that I have a brain tumor. I had mentioned to my doctor at a routine checkup that I was feeling perpetually tired, along with an interesting assortment of other bodily annoyances, too embarrassing to mention.
Meanwhile, as directed by the nurse, I am drinking vast quantities of water, so that she will be able to easily find my veins. I am ready to pee in my pants as soon as it’s my turn. My veins are as thick as tootsie rolls. I try not to look at them.
“Thank you,” the victim right before me says, as he leaves.
“You’re thanking someone for torturing you?” I ask, eyes wide. Personally, I was planning to kick the nurse in the a- - when she was through with me, and extra hard if I think she enjoyed it.
When it was over, three hours later (the nurse insisted it only took 40 seconds, but of course, she was lying), I was grateful to be alive and surprisingly, still conscious.
Guess my luck is changing. It's entirely possible that I may not have a tumor, after all.