As a college kid who's still currently in the job search, I've been keeping my eyes open for time-efficient opportunities to earn a little extra gas money. Which is why I found myself in line today to sell plasma. (People do crazy things for money, seriously.)

It was truly a most interesting experience, and one from which I am still apparently recovering as I sit here munching saltines and patting the pretty blue elastic bandage wrapped tourniquet-style around my left elbow.

After a bit of meandering around trying to find the building (this is normal for me...I'm directionally challenged even when armed with Mapquest directions), I discovered a squat looking little brick place in the center of a strip mall that, from the sign outside, was apparently a plasma donation center.

Found the place. Check.

I was greeted inside the door by a jolly plump black matron who squinted one eye at me, raised an eyebrow, and asked, "Did you play basketball? How tall are you? You probably get that question a lot, don't you?"

I told her that I: 1) don't play basketball, 2) am approximately 6'1" tall, and 3) don't get asked about basketball more than ten times on an average day, so no worries...it's a very original question.

This introduction was followed by a barrage of paperwork that lasted about an hour and forty-five minutes...after which point a shriveled little Oriental doctor with a cute little mouse-like face beckoned me into his office to ask...you guessed it! more questions. But he was really nice about it, and asked politely if he could please check a few things (presumably to make sure I wasn't dead or dying...which I wasn't).

Part of the exam is a deep palpation of the kidneys...did I mention that I'm REALLY ticklish? The poor little doctor started palpating my stomach to try to find my kidneys, and I busted out laughing...which of course tightened all of my abdominal muscles, making it impossible for the missing kidneys to be located...

The little Chinese physician cocked his head to one side quizzically, and then nodded understandingly as he said, "It ok! I very ticklish too."

But apparently I passed the physical, because another plump black matron escorted me into the back room, where dozens of squishy green chairs were lined up, some of which were filled with people of all shapes and sizes who had, like myself, chosen to let their lifeblood be drained from them in exchange for filthy lucre.

Everyone was terribly nice, and the whole situation was really almost comical. I began to have second thoughts right about the time that I saw the phlebotomist coming towards my arm with a needle the size of a small ice-pick.

"Um...what gauge is that needle?" I asked, trying to smile nonchalantly.

"It's a 17-gauge," she replied equally nonchalantly. "It has to be big, so we can return your red blood cells to you, because we just keep the plasma."

17? Did she say SEVENTEEN? The biggest I'd ever seen was a 12 gauge, but I nodded, my head keeping time with the flipping of my stomach. You know, Thea, other people are doing it, and it hasn't killed them yet. Except for that little old lady over in the corner. Ok, kidding...she wasn't quite dead yet either.

Once they get the ice pick into your arm, tho, it's really not all that bad. And apparently Liberty students are their primary source of plasma. Now that I think of it, maybe that should tell me something about the intelligence of college students, but...whatever.

I felt pretty good as I walked out, until I got to the door...then I kind of almost passed out, which was fun too, because all the voices suddenly started to sound kind of echoey and really faaar away...and I remember thinking to myself, Self, you should probably sit down...or, as one of my professors likes to say, 'You'll be horizontal veeery soon.'

So I sat down, which was kind of an admission of weakness, but several of the employees bustled over with Gatorade, and the shriveled little Chinese doctor came running in with one of those spinny office chairs and offered to wheel me to my car. Yeah right. I'm approximately twice his height...I mean, never underestimate a Chinaman, but seriously?

I told him I was good, which I was after just a few moments. One of the plump black women placed a concerned hand on my shoulder and told me I should eat something as soon as I got home.

"Oh don't worry," I chirped, "that's one of my favorite things to do!"

She got a taken-aback look on her face, and then she tsked at me, and laughed. "Sure, dat one of yo favorite tings to do. You ain't nothin' but trouble, girl!"

If she only knew the half...my poor parents.

But at that point, I bid all the friendly blood-sucking employees a happy adieu, and came home to eat saltines and drop crumbs on my floor and do homework...in that order.