Vacation Bible Hell

My best friend, Robbie, and I were on the phone after the longest day of my life.

"I never want to have anything to do with it ever again," I said, "Until the fateful day when I drop off the eldest Abbey spawn to the clutches of the church ladies, I want nothing to do with VBS. This will be the last time I ever, ever volunteer or even think about it. It's not even fun, I remember totally hating it as a kid."

"It's one of those things though," Robbie's voice came through the phone, "We had to endure VBS as children to turn out to be the people we are today. The kids that used to scream until their parents picked them up and took them home are the same ones that are annoying now and that we don't hang out with. It's a necessary evil. It's a character builder."

And she, as usual, was right.

Turns out though, VBS is a character builder for more than just those enrolled, but those (forced to be) volunteering.

Today, the kick-off day of a week long VBH at the church I'm working for in Amarillo, Texas. Don't get me wrong, I would've loved to have volunteered, (or you know, not hated it) if the age group I was given could wipe their own asses.

Nay, I am the lead teacher of fifteen 3 year olds: A job I am in no way adequate to perform.

Started out well enough, we sang songs downstairs.

"Who's that walking on the water? Who's that walking on the sea? Who's that Walking on the water, Jesus, He cares for me!"

Gay.

After song and opening ceremonies me and the 3 year olds were banished to our classroom, far far away from any other adults. Me, 15 nuggets and two helpers. I am in no way trained on how to function in a classroom for 2 hours with children. What's that, I was supposed to have a lesson plan? Well, I don't. What's that, that kid is special needs? What does that mean? I dunno what to do with that...

Scene: 15 kids running amuck in a nursery classroom. Some playing airplane others tossing play-doh, some climbed into a low-set sink and are soaking wet. Some building blocks, some making those cry by knocking down their blocks. Me standing in the middle ripping my hair out.

Special Needs kid pooped on the floor.

Giant Poop. On the Floor. By the bookshelf.

I lost a kid.

All of a sudden I counted 14 when there were supposed to be 15 so I frantically ran all over the church calling for my lost puppy.

(Turns out her parents came and picked her up without telling anyone. Awesome. Give me a heart attack. Totally not my fault.)

And all the while, one punk kid one stop screaming and bawling for her momma so all the other 3 year olds who were having a lovely time playing with blocks and play-doh also started to miss their mommas.

I.

Can't.

Do.

This.

Just make it to lunch, just make it to lunch, just make it to lunch.

It was the longest morning of my entire life.

But eventually, lunch time came.

Downstairs we went and I pulled out the lunches for everyone, mine included, set them all in a circle and helped the kids open their juiceboxes and ziplock baggies. I actually had started to enjoy this part, all the kids eating their tiny star and rocketship shaped sandwiches.

This is okay.

This isn't even bad.

Then, I went to grab my lunch (because all I could think about was the delicious turkey sandwich I'd concocted at 7:45 that morning.)

Gone.

A kid had stolen it and ate the entire thing.

He ate his entire lunch, too.

It's not even like he didn't have one. He did. But he ate his and mine.

And it was on this day, as my tummy growled and I looked with loathing over the hoards of children sitting in circles with jam up and down their faces, all over their fingers, and capri sun spills glistening in the florescent light, that I should probably not reproduce. Ever. Ever. Ever.

I sent my mom a text message that informed her that Gage, my nephew, is going to be her only grandchild if it's up to me. Hope she's okay with that. Spoil him now, there are no other babies coming her way.

I'd like to tell you that I had some big redeeming moment where I realized the beauty of children or something, but it never came.

Something about wiping poop up from the floor of a nursery as high pitched shrieks from a tiny human is completely sobering.

No kids.

Keep Your Knees Closed.

Or else your whole life will be VBS.

Summer's First Fail

I love living in The Booger.

I love having people over whenever they want to come, showering without fear of contracting some disease from the bottom of the tub, walking barefoot on the wood floors, getting excited every time there is mail in the mailbox, and then getting slightly disappointed when it's an electric bill. I love my two car garage, my big backyard, our front porch and the way the sun peaks through the window in my room just perfectly in the mornings. I love my roommates, they're two of the funniest people I know, and I love that we decorated our bathroom with posters of the worst-ever bands (Greenday, LFO, soon to come: Creed, Nickelback, Newsboys,) because it's the room we poop in.

I'm living the dream this summer.

The lime green, boogery dream.

We have some pretty rockin' awesome neighbors, too.

There are three boys in the WT band who live in the house next to us, and tonight they brought us over a homemade butter pecan cake because Rocky, their (unofficial) alpha male, is fantastic and talented with an oven mit.

We paused Sisterhoood of the Traveling Pants upon their arrival and we all had some cake and sat around and watched their puppy, Pepper, sniff at the carpet and lick the bare feet in the living room.

"Who wants milk?" I counted hands raised and backed into the kitchen. Pulling down the glasses from the cabinet I couldn't help but be reminded of how thirsty I was. 'It must have been from being in the sun all day,' I thought to myself, 'I could really go for a big glass of milk to wash down this delectable cake.'

I poured generous portions of milk into four cups and delivered the other three before fisting my own and taking three huge swallows.

Gulp.

Gulp.

Gulp.

Rotten.

"Stayce," I said to my roommate as I wiped the mustache from my lip, "did you try the milk yet?"

A concerned look crossed her face as she held the glass up to her nose, "Smells bad," she said with her face scrunched.

I confiscated everyone's beverages, (as to not scare away our magnificent, cake-bearing company) and brought them back into the kitchen, and proceeded to dump the chunks down the sink.

F my life.

I looked at the back of my hand where I'd wiped my milky mustache to find cottage cheese-esque nasties cumulated between my thumb and my index finger.

Always Check Expiration Dates.

My stomach hurts.

Going Green

Two of my friends and I recently moved into the greenest house I've ever seen.

We call it "The Booger."

It's fantastic.

Fantastically, green.

The inside is green, too.

Whenever people come over they just walk in an laugh a little and usually say something along the lines of, "you would."

It fits us, perfectly. We're all a little quirky.

One of my favorite features of our new house is the fall-out shelter that was added in the 1950s that lives twelve feet beneath our second living room. There's a spot where you can pull the carpet up and a metal door appears, quite literally, from the woodwork.

Another favorite feature of mine, is the two car garage that my roommates and I would've had zero use for three weeks ago.

Though each of us drive a car, none of us feel convicted enough to protect them by the garage. We'd rather just park on the street or in the driveway, so I was privileged with the opportunity to transform the said two car garage into an art studio. My unfinished, or partially finished canvases hang crooked on the preexisting nails and my collection of acrylics lay anxious in the corner wondering when they will be of use to me.

The garage needed a little something.

Because of Craig's List, I knew just the thing.

My mom was a little upset when I told her.

Of course, I was a mega-whimp and the forum I chose was to post this very picture on her facebook wall, and then not call or pick up the phone for approximately three days.

When my sister saw the picture over my mom's shoulder, she exclaimed something to the effect of, "FINALLY, I'M THE FAVORITE CHILD."

And, that she probably is.

My brother has an R1, and I now rock a lime green 600 to match my house.

Seriously, the greenest house I've ever seen.

In all honesty, though, I do have a decent commute to my summer job in downtown Amarillo. And something about the O-zone layer, or saving gas, or cheaper gas, or something. I remember having a reason to buy that motorcycle other than it matches my house (perfectly.)

Also, if I was ever going to buy a crotch rocket, while I live in the giant field people call "the Texas Panhandle" is probably the ideal time to learn how to cope on two wheels. The lack of population results in fairly empty streets.

Also, you must not lie, that's pretty badass.

Go Green, or Go Home.

Or Go to your Green Home?

I live the dream.

It's going to be an awesome summer.

Happy Thoughts: A Historical Rant

My poor neglected blog.

I'd like to think people read this, too, so they've been checking and somewhat disappointed with my May.

You know who else has been disappointed with May?

This kid.

I was uber excited to take this "Film and History with emphasis on the Holocaust" course at WT during the Maymester.

Basically, the protocol is watching one movie a day, and then we either:

1. Discuss it as a class (and flinch every time the inglorious bastard (da-da-chh) who always provides an inappropriate or incompetent contribution decides to open his big mouth. )

2. Fill out a questionnaire in a small group (and rejoice that there are other people who sit near me that are willing to discuss cartoons, unicorns, and happy thoughts in hushed, reverent tones.)

or 3. Write papers (which we procrastinate on until the night before they're due, and end up spending all night doing expresso shots and cursing our poor life choices and work ethic.)

I know it sounds morbid, but I find the Holocaust fascinating.

I've read a lot of books on the subject in my day including, but not limited to Night, Number the Stars, the Diary of Anne Frank, and my most recent read (and 2010 recommendation to anyone who will listen to me,) Man's Search For Meaning.

Unfortunately, what I've found out in the last two weeks, is that even I am not emotionally detached enough to handle that much Holocaust.

No one is. Or should be, at least.

It's awful.

Every morning I wake up at eight and drag myself to campus and watch people die on film by the thousands.

When I go to work in the afternoon at the Canyon After School Program, I fight the urge to tell all the little brunet children to run, and hide, because the Germans are coming. THEY'RE COMING.

Urg.

Please, don't misunderstand.

The films we've watched, the insight of my professor, and the class overall is worthwhile; however, it is the most depressing thing I've ever done in my life.

I'm more convinced of human depravity than ever before.

Thankfully, I'm taking the class with one of my best friends, Hungry John, (who is so named because of his consistent inclination to want to eat.) He is easily one of the most agreeable, most joyful people I've ever met; but even Hungry John's eyes have lost a little spark in the last few weeks. His mouth, which is usually sporting a smile, from 8-12 every morning looks oddly unnatural as he cannot seem to unfrown. Any of you who've met me know that I'm not particularly huggy, but in the middle of one of the films, I may or may not have asked Hungry John to just hold me.

I can't even count the number of Holocaust film's we've watched.

I'll try.

Shindler's List, The Pianist, The Counterfitter, Korczak, The Beilski Brothers, The Courageous Heart of Irena Sendler, The Shop on Main Street, Fateless, The Children Must Laugh...the list goes on, but most of the one's I've skipped are polish produced documentaries that rockith the subtitles.

Today in class, however, I found myself less sad than what I'd now consider "usual."

Perhaps it was because I was oddly detatched from reality because I'd stayed up all night long with a can of Starbucks expresso, McDonalds apple pies, and 3 word documents waiting to be turned into papers. Don't you worry, I got them done, but when I got to class everything was like a dream.

I do remember our class discussion this morning, though.

Our professor, Dr Elizabeth Clark, who did her dissertation in Poland, and speaks Polish, Russian and German, and lived in Warsaw all last year, and is super nuts-o into this stuff, asked us those obvious, yet somewhat ambiguous questions, one of which was: Why do we study this?

"To remember," someone said.

"To make me feel sad," I thought.

" To make sure it never happens again," another voice called out.

Ahhh.

"But, does our knowledge of the past effect our interactions with the present?" Dr. Clark baited, "What about the Holocaust are you trying to prevent from reoccuring? Racism? Destruction of Jews? Mass executions?"

My mouth was too tired to talk, but I sat tiredly in my chair, slumped over my desk, thinking about my answer.

What is it that we're trying so desperately to avoid?

Human tragedy.

That's what we don't want to repeat:

Genocide of any kind. Death. Suffering. Pain. Intolerance. Belittlement. Hate.

We're convinced that we, as mankind, can do something to stop one another from hatred.

But can we?

Even if we learn the ins and outs of how something as tragic and devastating as the Holocaust happened can we really convince the world to stop hating?

There ARE tragedies happening all around us every day.

Perhaps there isn't genocide occurring within the borders of the United States, but there is belittlement and intolerance.

Perhaps there aren't death camps producing corpses by the thousand, but there are lost, lonely, and hurting hearts around us every day.

Perhaps there aren't laws forbidding certain races to own shops, walk on the sidewalks, or live freely, but there is racism.

Why do we assume that we'll be able fight the big fights, (and avoid another Holocaust situation) if we let the little fights go unnoticed?

It'd be nice to think that the human race is progressing.

That we're becoming more tolerant, more accepting, or loving, or humanitarian.

But are we?

When is the last time that you thought about someone outside yourself, your friends, or your family?

It's easy to get wrapped up in our own worlds. It's easy to love those that love us.

But that's how atrocities like the Holocaust happened: Because the injustice didn't specifically effect our world, our friends, our families, ourselves, we did nothing about it.

I guess what my exhausted rambling is getting at is this:

Humanity is depraved.

Engulfed by sin.

Swallowed by debauchery.

And all the while, we live our lives idly by.

We don't stand up for the little man, or go out of our way for anyone outside our circles. We're just as bad as those that watched the Holocaust progress.

Meh.

This class ends Thursday.

I've taken to doing one happy thing everyday to counter these realizations of human depravity, because though this world is heavy and fallen, Christ is risen, and ultimately the battle is won.

Though it is important to remember the depths of our sins, let us not forget he who took them from us.

What's your Happy Thought?

I am a Great Sinner,

Christ is a Greater Saviour.

Remember the Truth.

A Mess

Finals week is always a blurry mess. Whenever I'm thinking about my college experience, I always manage to block it out of my memories until it comes up again, and then I'm like "Oh, yeah, this sucks, I remember." Always different classes, semesters, professors, always the same blurry mess.

That being said, I'm also trying to move this week.

Two friends and I have rented out a LIME green house that we're calling "The Booger." Pictures will be available later, but for now, just know that when I say "LIME green," I mean that this is easily the most obnoxious color I've ever seen on a house. If it was in Carrollton, the homeowners association ladies would've burned it down, tried and convicted the local misfit 5th grader for arson, and built a magnificent two-story brick home in it's place a long time ago.

But we think it's funny.

And it totally has a nuclear fall-out shelter that was built in the 1950s.

That being said, I'm also an RA and trying to get all my residents situated and moved out.

Their rooms have to be empty and spotless, and I have to personally check-out each and everyone of them, file appropriate paper work and re-clean whatever they missed.

So I have 30 appointments that fill up any time I have in between final exams and moving my own stuff across town.

That being said, my final exams are ridiculous.

Because I'm a history major, all my exams are blue-book essays, mostly comprehensive and comparing things throughout the entire course.

I'm not complaining, I love it.

Not sure if you know this or not, but I'm a total dork and I like to know things about Aquinas, Mongke Khan and Thomas Jefferson. (Three men, from three different classes.)

Alas, while enjoyable it is quite time consuming to actually study.

That being said, I haven't showered in a while.

Well, yesterday. Morning.

Yesterday morning I showered.

But I've had some serious to-do listage going on this week and so oversleeping, slapping on some more deodorant and wearing what I slept in the night before has become sort of a routine. Stupid alarm clock, of all weeks, you pick this one to malfunction. I'll replace you, you useless piece of...

So anyways.

Today I'm wearing what I wore yesterday afternoon because I overslept this morning.

Tab's 8th grade Perryton Athletics sweatshirt with ripped thumb holes, my Abercrombie and Fitch hat from 1999, knock of pumas I bought in China my senior year of high school, and a pair of Nike soccer shorts that the (Byrd family) Easter Bunny bought me at Academy.

Lookin' rough.

If I've got make-up on, its been on there since before church yesterday morning.

Don't judge me.

I've got a lot going on, I'm busy. I'm a scrub.

Tra la la.

So I finish my first exam and I'm walking back home, my left hand throbbing from the 7 essays I just squeezed into a blue book, and I'm thinking about how great it will feel to shower and not be gross.

And I'm passing by the Library and I see this HUGE black guy is walking down the same sidewalk as me, but in the opposite direction.

I think he plays football for WT.

Seriously, though, gigantic. If he leaned forward, people could snow ski down his back in the winter time, his tall tee could double as a tent for a family of six camping in Palo Duro Canyon, and his arms make telephone poles look like toothpicks.

I noticed a tattoo on the arm closest to me.

So, I was looking at the tattoo, but I wasn't looking at his tattoo.

Not sure if that was clear enough.

I wasn't diggin' this guy's chili, I was just noticing the big ink splotch on his colossal arms and wondering how many times they had to refill the tattoo gun to finish all that.

(I'm not racist, but I'm also not really into black guys. It's nothing personal, they're just not really my type.)

Then I noticed his face.

Maybe he wasn't licking his lips at me, maybe his lips were just chapped.

I didn't have time to decide which was true before he grabbed his shirt just over his chest with one hand, and put the other in the holler position by his chin and said, "Damn girl, you gots some mean legs, like you can kick the hell out somebody."

I'd consider myself a smooth talker. I usually know what to say. But in the last couple weeks I've lost all the game that I've ever had, and today was no different.

I panicked.

"I hope so."

That doesn't even make sense, Abbey, you idiot.

I felt myself blushing, looked down and kept walking.

He laughed and turned to watch me walk away.

That being said, I'm going to go on a run, because even though its attractive to the wrong boy (as always) something is working for me.

I still got it.

Even on finals week.

That may have been the compliment I needed to make it through this blurry mess.

Yesterday's Make-Up is Today's Sexy.

The Something

So much has gone on this month.
The reason I wasn't blogging wasn't because my life suddenly became boring. Quite the contrary, so much has happened that it became almsot impossible to stay caught up.

Opening Statements:
I'm sorry
a. that this is a rushed post

b. that this post is going to be a jumbled overview of some current events.
c. its going to be at least two weeks before you get a good post from me.

The Rising Action:
This was birthday month.
And my birthday is my favorite holiday, more than Christmas, because I'm selfish, I'm a sinner, and I don't really like the smell of Christmas trees. That fresh pine scent is supposed to stay outside.

But anyways, my birthday is the perfect time of year.
It's far enough behind Spring Break that my friends have had adequate time to recover from the exhaustion of thier mission trips or the guilt from their partying, and yet it's far enough in front of finals that they don't feel like they're cheating on the library with a party.
In fact, April 17 is positioned ever so perfectly on the calendar just before those notorious end-of-the-semester projects and papers that everyone really wants to hang out because they know that my birthday party is probably going to be their last chance.

It helps that I'm 100% extraverted, I'm an RA so I know everyone, and I live in a tiny town where people have nothing better to do, but we always have a good turn out on April 17.

Last year it was a Harry Potter Party. It was rad. I had an eye-liner lightning bolt on my forehead, and all my friends riding broomsticks and talking in British accents.
This year's theme was "white trashed" because it was my big 2-1.
(That's right, I'm finally 20 SOMETHING, and not lying on my tagline in the blog title.)

We sported our favorite nascar drivers, wore camo, trucker hats, ripped tees, red lipstick, fake pregnant bellies, and stick on tattoos to the Amarillo Roller Derby's charity event.
All proceeds went to the children's hospital, so it was partying for a good cause.
We had about 40 show up, (and fill an entire section of bleechers) where we rooted on our favorite roller dame "Big Red," as she smashed in the opposing team's faces, threw elbows, and skated in so many circles that we all felt a little dizzy.

It was a good time.
I got a free beer because it was my birthday, but I had approximately one sip of it before giving it away to anyone who was old enough to take it. Though the bottle made it into lots of the pictures with me, I think Coors Light is disgusting, and I'd rather drink my own...

Anyways.
Birthday week was fun.
On Friday, when I turned 21 at midnight, I got to have a drink with my best friends at whore island.
Saturday, threw a white trash party and watched XL ladies beat the snot out of eachother in fishnet pantyhose.
Sunday, my brother (who had come to town for the weekend festivities,) and I went to Palo Duro Canyon, Donut Stop and got to play sand volleyball all afternoon.
I'd say it was a rousing success.

The Climax:
Tell you what wasn't a rousing success: the 5K I'd been training to run on the morning of the 17th.
My friend Randy and I started running together a lot this semester. We have different routes through Canyon, and while we might not be the fastest kids, we're starting to gain some legitimacy in distance. Our goal was to run a 5K for the C.A.S.A. charity.

The week before the C.A.S.A. run, we were really upping our distance in preparation.
Cool.
So, Randy and I start running at whore island, and we twist through the neighborhoods, working our way steadily eastward, and wind up by Hungry John's, then cut over towards the First United Bank Center, kinda.
The rap music is playing in my ear, my steps are on beat, I'm in the zone.
But then I start to not feel good.
Something strange was happening in my belly.
"There's a storm in there."

I tried to ignore the pain in my stomach, because I didn't want to look like a total wuss. (Whenever I run with someone, I feel like a moron if I have to stop before they do.)
But it was hurting.
I fell behind but I kept going.
Randy was in the zone, and though he looked over his shoulder to make sure I was alright, I waved him on and he kept stretching his legs out, getting farther and farther away....

I kept running.
Song change.
Kept running.
And my stomach was hurting worse and worse until...I just... puked all over a front lawn on Linda street.
And then I looked up and there was a man watering that same lawn, no less than 15 feet away from me.
His mouth just hung open as he stood there with his hose, watering, and staring.
He might've tried to ask me if I wanted a drink, but the sound of his voice was buried beneath Ke$ha's.
"That's embarrassing," I thought as I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, "Stupid Mexican Pile-On from free lunch. I know that you're to blame."

The Falling Action:
The puking really became a mental block for my running.
Everytime I would get past a couple of miles, I'd get nervous that barfing would once again ensue, and I'd blow chunks in some old guy's yard right in front of him.
Then I ended up getting a head cold from all the April showers, and not being able to breathe, thus not being able to train.
Also, Randy could only get off work for either our morning race or our evening roller derby...So we didn't run the 5k.

Conclusion:

But we totally could've.
Since then, we've regained our legitimacy, and come the next race, we're all over it.
Birthdays are fun, but beer is gross.
My bike got stolen 3 weeks ago, so if any of you see someone on a stolen-looking red motobeacon, please throw rocks at them.
Be careful not to lose your cookies while running.
annnnnnnd

Give War a Chance.
(sarcasm.)

Giant Blue Condom

I've never wanted to give blood.

I know that, as Christians, we should be giving and selfless yada yada yada, and that ultimately the world is the Lord's and everything in it... but there is probably a reason he put blood in my body. I probably need it. And I probably shouldn't drain it out even if I intend to give it to somebody else.

Its mine, kinda.

So as selfless as I would like to be, whenever it comes to those stupid blood drives, I avert my eyes and walk as quickly as possible to escape the gnawing guilt flowing through my veins.

Well...

Today I compromised my convictions.

And I got what I deserved.

Let me start at the beginning.

Because I procrastinated on some paperwork that I need to finish for Residential Living, I spent most of my afternoon in the 3rd floor lobby waiting for residents to walk by so I could get their signatures before the forms are due (tonight, in approximately one hour.)

I was multi-tasking; Sifting through countless pages of history books, filling out gold card numbers in blank spaces on paperwork, watching and mocking Full House re-runs, and munching on some snacks.

Around 2:15 or 2:30 I was joined by some of my residents, Haley Sparks and Lindsey Kirk, and they invited me to go give blood.

I chuckled and denied their request immediately, "Ha, no. I don't give blood. It freaks me out."

That worked for a while, but long story short, they convinced me.

Long story long, there is this charity organization that donates goats to poor families overseas as a means of boosting their economy and helping them survive. It's called "Give a Goat." There is also some sort of charitable competition between the dorms with all this blood donor madness. Evidently, if Cross Hall has more students donate blood than any other dorm on WT campus, then we get $600 to spend as we choose. Cross Hall decided that if we get the most blood donors, and the money, then we would donate it to buy goats, which at $75 each, would service 8 families in need.

Urgghhhh global responsibility.

So, we went to the JBK student center on campus, to the hub of nurses wearing scrubs buzzing between scary lawn chairs, and big machines with buttons and bags of blood.

I filled out the proper paperwork, answered the questionnaire and convinced the scrub ladies that I've never had gay sex. I've never been diagnosed with HIV or AIDS. I've never shot drugs with a needle, and I've never, no, once again, never had gay sex. No, not even for money.

(What is this world coming to?)

Lindsey and Haley were already strapped in and pumping by the time I was seated in my mesh chair. Haley was immediately next to me, but when I saw that her blood bag was almost full it sicked me out and I didn't look at her again.

Lindsey was much farther away, probably ten yards across the room. I couldn't see her blood bag.

That was probably for the best.

The nurse who was in charge of my donation came over and we chatted for a while. She verified all my information and then told me there'd be a little prick and a sting.

It was nothing.

This is no problem.

I wiggled my fingers like I was supposed to, and I thought happy thoughts.

And I didn't watch, but I knew that the blood was being pumped into the bag.

Haley finished in the meantime, and gathered up her things to leave but stopped by my chair to see how I was doing.

"I'm doing great. Taking it like a pro," I said.

"You're doing better than Lindsey, that's for sure," Haley said as she pointed across the room, "Look how pale she is!"

Sure enough, the girl looked like John McCain. Well, she's cuter. But in terms of complexion, totally see-through.

She didn't look well.

The nurses were strapping ice packs to her forehead and pointing a box fan at her and leaning her chair back.

I smiled and said bye to Haley before purposefully catching Lindsey Kirk's eye and mocking her relentlessly. I pointed and made an over the top laughing face and pretended to faint and to be hot.

She shook her head and mouthed something to the effect of "douche."

I chuckled quietly to myself as I turned back in my chair and continued to squeeze and release my hand.

It really seemed like no time had passed at all when the nurse came over and told me I was about finished.

"That wasn't bad, I dunno why I was so worried," I told her.

"Yeah, your bag is all filled up," she said sort of motioning down to the ground.

I glanced down and I saw a bag filled with my blood.

"Oh, that's all uhhh mine.. uhhh... I.. Uhhh."

The corners of my vision started to go black, and as she pulled the needle out of my arm, it finished.

"Everything's dark!"

"Don't close your eyes!" she said as she leaned my chair back, and I felt the cooling sensation of an ice pack touch my forehead and slide behind my neck. Suddenly there was wind, too.

As the blackness slowly started to retreat I saw a male nurse in scrubs fanning me wildly like a cabana boy on some beach somewhere.

"How you feeling?"

"I'm gonna puke."

The darkness had faded and I could see everyone and everything again, and there were many more nurses around me than I remember.

They were crowded around me like a junior high fight.

"Here," the cabana boy said, "If you've got to, try to vomit into this." He handed me what appeared to be a giant blue condom.

Somebody else was shoving a drink into my hand and telling me to hydrate.

Somebody else was adjusting the ice pack on my head.

And my phone was ringing.

I fumbled around but managed to get my tingly fingers to accept the call amid the chaos.

It was Lindsey Kirk, from a few yards away.

"Karma's a bitch."

Defeated, I looked over at her, made eye contact and said, "they gave me a big condom to barf in," and I held it up for her to see.

I ended up recovering just fine from my donation extravaganza, because let's face it, giving blood is really not a big deal.

But I just can't look at a bag of my own blood.

It freaks me out.

And it's disgusting.

But, as always I learned a valuable lesson that I wish to relay to you.

If you compromise your values

You will Black out.

You will feel queezy.

And when told to lift your arm for 30 seconds, you will try to convince all the nurses to join you as you fist pump like a champ.

Also,

Karma is a Bitch.

So be nice to people.

But don't donate your blood to them.