Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

You know those Klondike Bar commercials? The ones with the catchy jingle of  “what would you do-oo-oo for a Klondike Bar,” well, they always entail some weird action that must be completed in order to receive the frozen delicacy of chocolate shrapnel surrounding a white block of shame. I don’t necessarily find myself drawn to tickling a grizzly bear or offering to take off ballerina socks after a long rehearsal for the tin foil covered lump of ordinary vanilla. Nope. I don’t think I’d do much for a Klondike Bar, not more than open the freezer anyways.

But movies are highlights of my existence. I would do mostly anything to see a movie that I haven’t seen yet, or even a movie I just really enjoyed. So when you combine the peer pressure of street walkers trying to get me to donate blood with a free movie ticket I really can’t pass that up. It seems like a healthy-ish addiction. I’m helping people who need blood and I’m not running around getting the plague or Hepatitis or whatever so I can donate again in the future. As sketch as it might seem to wander into a bus on the side of the shopping plaza willing to emerge with a track mark and a juice box that’s pretty much how it ended up.

So yeah. I donate blood for movie tickets. And what a happening place that bus was. While I was getting prepped, a middle-aged couple came in and we started chatting because I was doing some sort of impersonation of myself and she laughed at it. Instant friends. Well, it had the potential, but they were slightly weirder than I appreciate on a daily basis.  Anyways, turns out they were on their second date and, “It’s a lot cheaper to donate blood and get free movie tickets for date three than a nice steak dinner.” That was a paraphrase even though it looked like a direct quote. And he was apparently not embarrassed at all to admit that right in front of his date while I might have been even if it was the honest-to-goodness-truth.

I think they had the ability to last through the tests of time. Or at least until date three. I didn’t pass out or even feel remotely queasy, which must mean that I’m getting much better with the willful removal of my lifeblood. Come to me vampires of the world, as I am apparently up for grabs.

Donate blood. There are free snacks. You get to lay down. Sure, a week later and my arm still looks like someone stabbed it with a needle and then twisted the point in arcs under the skin, but hey toughen up or you’ll never survive the zombie apocalypse.