Mr. Cellophane

In a location adjacent to a place in a city of some significance, what comes out of my head is plastered on the walls of this blog.

Thursday, July 07, 2016

In my fevered search for some kind of income between those days when I'm not called in, I found myself considering selling my blood. Much to my surprise, people don't do that anymore. People do, however, get paid for donating plasma.

Yesterday, I went to the center to get paid for plasma. However, there was a complicated screening process involving filling out forms, having my blood type determined and being made aware of the possible risks of the procedure.

Unfortunately, after all of this hoop jumping, not only did I not get to donate plasma that day (and, therefore, get some money in my pocket), but I have to wait three weeks for a physical to determine if I'd be a good candidate for donation.

Look, I haven't the youth, physique or stamina for prostitution and being anywhere around drugs makes me uncomfortable, so until someone wakes up and reads one of my scripts or hires me for the positions I've been interviewing for, this is how it's got to fucking be.

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