Oh, don’t be such a Puritan, Gentle Reader. It ended up not happening.
Bound by the constraints of The List, I was obliged to both attend a protest and to attempt to donate blood – despite the fact that it’s illegal for me, as a gay man, to do so. When I caught wind of the National Gay Blood Drive set to take place last Friday, I was thrilled – it was an opportunity to knock out two items at once, and attempt to do some good in the process.
I took to Social Media to seek a convenient proxy to give me their blood; in short, I demanded a blood sacrifice from a willing straight person – nowhere in the list’s rules did it say the blood I donated had to be mine. I located a suitable stand-in, and we made arrangements.
victim volunteer had returned to her home in Oregon a few days before the blood drive was to take place, and was left bloodless and cold. What’s a poor boy to do?
Return to Social Media to try to get another source of the good stuff. Miss Thrush was gracious enough to step into the gap at the eleventh hour. We made arrangements to meet the next day, after her doctor’s appointment, at a local café.
At the appointed hour, I had been sketching, writing, and idly reading for a bit of time, when I received a message from Miss Thrush: her appointment was going overlong – they needed to keep her for additional tests. I replied No Worries, and that we didn’t have to go to the drive – and, assuming I was out of luck and out of a ride, dashed out of wifi-range to the bus stop. I would later learn that after Miss Thrush left the hospital, she came and waited at the café for two hours. I felt like a heel.
In the meantime, I was in the hot-house of the bus shelter, suffering 90 degrees plus. When I eventually stepped into the air-conditioning of the bus, I sighed in relief, knowing that it was the last relief I’d feel for many hours.
When I debarked the bus, I had an unpleasant journey ahead of me, and I knew it. It’s eleven miles to my home, and the weather hadn’t let up at all. I had over-packed my satchel, Bucephales, as well, so I was laden with about fifty pounds and a ukulele. Nonetheless, my other option was “lay down and die” – and I’m far too stubborn for that.
Sockless, in cheap summery boat shoes, I began my journey. When I hit the first landmark, at the quarter-mark of the trip, my bad knee* began giving me trouble, and despite having everything else known to humanity in my bag, I had neglected to bring my cane. Welp. Nothing more to be said on that score.
Eventually I attained Arvingdale, my home, and I decided that I would have to cancel my plans to attend Tacoma Pride. My friends were not about to let me get away with that, as you’ll be able to read on Wednesday.