There’s only one bad thing about getting your blood drawn. This is only, of course, if you discount the painful prick of the needle and the occasional inept blood-drawing person who stabs you multiple times in the arm to find a suitable vein in vain.
I, as of late, had to endure this process and this “only one bad thing” did happen to be part of my own experience.
Not every blood draw requires it, but, in this instance, it did. Additionally, it had been so long since any blood draw I was a part of had involved a fast that it caught me of guard.
Okay, so abstain from eating food for at least twelve hours before your early morning appointment the following day – that was my Prime Directive. When it was handed to me initially, no sweat on my brow had broken.
This was no day-long fast and, seeing as at least half of the fasting time could be chalked up to sweet, sweet sleep, the actual amount of conscious time spent wrestling with my Hunger Demons didn’t seem particularly significant.
Yeah, well, fuck me – I was wrong.
Know that saying about always wanting the one thing you can’t have? Well, it’s the one saying that’s always bound to end up true.
Just like that Criterion Blu-Ray that you’d always passed up when it wasn’t Out of Print (I am not getting the Lionsgate release of The Third Man!) or that one nerdy Peruvian girl that inexplicably blossomed after college (even late blooming has to have an outer limit god dammit), your misplaced restraint returns to haunt you like a vengeful ghost with a very tangible strap-on.
Necessary backstory: my diet is generally pretty minimal. I probably consume a little less than 2000 calories a day as a means of maintaing my, hm, waifish figure. As a means of instilling discipline in myself, I try not to give myself excuses to indulge, like holidays and birthdays.
Naturally, banning any eating whatsoever for the next several hours would seem reasonable reason enough for Past Jerome to gorge on anything and everything.
And just as naturally, this seemed to be a perfect situation for Now Jerome to try out his newfound discipline. I ate only as much as usual – that is to say very little – and watched the clock tick down the rest of the way before sleep.
It was excruciating. Even the hardened dinner rolls in the pantry started to look delicious to my carb-deprived self. I think I saw a clock tick backwards.
And some other cliche illustration of sluggish time took place, I’m sure.
It was torture, I tell you – TORTURE!
Then I had my blood drawn the next morning before going straight to Applebee’s®.
And that was torture, I tell you – TORTURE!
The joke is that it’s gross.
And yes, I only wrote about this because of the wordplay possibility.