phlebotomists

You know you’re in trouble when they remember you. “Oh, she’s back!” I was greeted with such an anticipatory grin. “As if getting poked is one of my favorite things,” I replied. “Not.” Hahaha.
Anemia is not fun. The first week, every time I tried to think of what it was I had, amnesia is what kept coming to mind. yeah, whatever.
I’ve noticed the painting on the wall previous times in the “lounge chair” where they tourniquet your arm, pump up your fist, and swipe however many tubes they need for whatever battery of tests they’re gonna run on the precious lifeblood they draw from your veins. It’s a van Gogh reproduction of Starry Night.
Maybe it’s the angle, or the colors, or maybe it is just the context that always make me think it’s Edvard Munch’s The Scream. I guess they don’t really look that much alike, but the rock outcropping somehow lends itself to the appearance of that poor screaming man.
I figure it’s just their sense of humor, but maybe it just shows how deeply I feel about giving up parts of my flesh.

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