I hate needles.
I mean, I don't really mind all that much at getting a shot or anything like that, but I am strangely fascinated and yet horribly terrified of the needle actually piercing my flesh and then touching the insides of my body. It's kind of like a car crash - I don't WANT to look, but my fatal sense of curiosity refuses to allow me to look away.
I had to take a blood test last year, and I was only consolable by a certain picture of Christian Bale from American Psycho. The guy taking my blood asked why I had it, and when I explained, he chuckled, and we started talking about how amazing that movie was.
Then he removed one vial and started on another. I was flummoxed! TWO vials?? I wasn't a bloodbank and he wasn't a decidedly attractive vampire - why could he want TWO vials of my blood? But I didn't ask. Apparently, it was assumed that I knew they'd be taking two. Pssh. Whatever.
Surprisingly, however, I must admit that it didn't hurt TOO bad.
Tuesday, I have to go in to get my blood tested for some genetic heart thing. I hope my John Cusack shirt arrives tomorrow. Other than that, I'm fully prepared: I will be bringing my Johnny Depp bag with me, and of course, my Jane Austen collection. Hopefully, they'll let me read while they invade my body with foreign and pointy objects. At least that way, the prick of the needle can be easily imagined as Mr. Darcy getting a little caught up in the moment...