Friday, March 20, 2009

No Means No

Despite my protests, I gave Gilda some kind of Lupus injection the other night and almost had a nervous breakdown in the process. Apparently, poking someone else with a needle is just as emotionally taxing for me as receiving one is. Junkies have earned my respect over the whole ordeal, though. Not only are they putting themselves at risk for intravenous disease, but they’re dulling the syringe with each use, and eventually, there’s going to be some push-back from their skin. They still force it in I'll bet. Their smack's too delicious. Gilda’s needle cut through skin like a hot knife through butta, and while I carefully watched my thumb depress the little plunger, I skill-lessly jackhammered the invasive needle into her arm, presumably tearing a new internal path with each downward motion. Poor Gilda hissed and squinted in the 30 seconds it took to traumatize me and leave a purple bruise on her, and after verifying that I was to remove the needle quickly, I yanked upward, put down the syringe, and threw my exhausted body dramatically on my bed.
We’re both ok now.
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