Feeling Less Than Charitable
2004-09-24, 11:24 a.m.

Friday�s fortune:

The secret paths of your heart contain many blessings to be shared with another.

Like, say, BLOOD?

I donate blood. I am blessed/cursed with being the Universal Donor, O-negative. If the professional vampires could have their way, they would probably install a spigot in the crook of my left elbow and siphon away on demand.

Giving blood is something nearly everyone can, and should, do. I have no fault with blood drives. What gets me are the guilt-trips-disguised-as-billboards I�ve seen no matter where I go. It has gone so far as to insinuate that my lack of millionth-gallon-donated status is singularly responsible for the suffering and death of innocents everywhere. Please don�t assault me with the cute babies who WILL DIE if I, and I alone, do not immediately rush to the blood bank to pour out every remaining drop of my life force. I feel for the families, I feel for the kids, and I will do what I can. But let me do it without the nightmares. Lure me in with a free t-shirt or juice and cookies, and afterwards me and my altruistic feelings will be on our merry way.

If I can donate, ANYONE can. The good folks at the donation centers are often surprisingly sympathetic with the needle-phobic idiots that slink through the doors (like me, for instance). There are a lot of blood drives around here now, presumably spurred by hurricane relief. Time to hitch up my nerve and head out to find one, �cause I ain�t killin� no babies.

I guess right now I�m feeling a wee bit put-upon, because EVERYONE EVERYWHERE are passing the charitable offering plates. We have only one paycheck. Within a two-week span I simply cannot support the door-to-door hurricane relief funds (legit), the school coupon book sales, the school carnival/auction, the school do-laps-for-pledge-money Superfund, the political campaigns, the drop-in-yer-dough jars for homeless animals/ailing children/ailing adults/disabled/disaffected/dissatisfied. Worthwhile causes, all. Yet, my family�s rumbling tummies cannot be buried under the plight of others. There comes a time when one must take care of one�s own. Call me Scrooge if you like, but the wallet is now closed for repairs.

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