I’m typing up my pendulum lab report when I feel something warm trickle out of my right nostril down my lip. It lands as a red drop on my keyboard: blood.
Delighted, I grab a plastic sauce container I’ve saved for the occasion and position it under my nose. I lean forward and let gravity do its thing. The bottom surface becomes a blanket of red. With each drop the crimson pool rises.
Unfortunately my platelets kick in, forming a clot and stopping the flow when the cup reaches roughly three quarters full. I violently blow my nose to dislodge the occlusion, adding just enough volume to give the harvest a consummate appearance.
I lick my upper lip clean and crawl into bed, drowsy and drunk on my own flavorful claret. I try to savor the taste, but sleep comes too fast.
Nervous knocking. I groggily open the door. It’s Cute Chris, and I reflexively wipe the drool off my face, thankful I just had my eyebrows threaded (theoretically mitigating my ugliness).
Cute Chris is the most effortlessly angelic human I have ever met; and while I’m not delusional enough to think him 100% flawless, his gratuitously humble nature coupled with his aptitude for linear algebra are enough to make me want to have hours of unprotected sex with him.
He sincerely apologizes for waking me up, but I tell him it’s alright, totally ok. He needs the practice test: slept through class this morning. I fix my messy pony tail and step aside to let him in. He stands patiently in the middle of my room as I rummage through my backpack.
I hand him the packet of problems. He’s staring warily at something on my dresser. Is it… blood?
Yes it’s blood. I suffer from 1) allergies and 2) shortage of facial tissues. This combination of factors led me to collect my fluids in the only available vessel: a sauce cup.
I catch him staring at my fully stocked box of Kleenex and copious rolls of paper towels. A troubled look tints his characteristically seraphic countenance.
He thanks me for the packet. I tell him no problem. Anytime.
He leaves too quickly, and I want to die a terrible death. Not really, but this is the only mantra that is able to mollify the debilitating despair that crawls up my throat, through my brain stem and into my temples where it threatens to linger for eternity, mercilessly radiating shame and humiliation forever and ever and ever. But I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die.
The next day the blood in the cup separates into two, distinct layers: clear plasma on top, red platelets on bottom. Of course: gravity likes heavy things more than it likes light things. The world is a centrifuge, but my body stubbornly resists equilibrium, fighting tirelessly to maintain a steady state.
“But I’ve escaped,” my blood whispers to me, “and you’re never going to get me back.”