You're A Bag Of Blood, Give Some AwaySeveral times a year—five if I can—I get stuck by a needle. A friendly hand hunts the crooks of both my elbows for a vein fat enough to poke, swabs it down with iodine, and dabs the spot with a marker as if it were a treasure map. Depending on whether or not I’m in the mood for sterile and unthreate...
