Let’s see, it’s Thursday evening and I’m watching a football game from my grandmother’s nursing home room. She’s not really watching; she’s sleeping. And I don’t really care about the football game, which is why I’m typing. This morning marked my second trip to donate plasma; it was also my second failed attempt. Apparently, as a means of proving that you’re not homeless, you need a piece of post-marked and dated mail. As well as your driver’s license and social security card. I don’t understand all the security around proving your identity and your affluence as a home owner (or ability to receive mail). But it can’t be just any mail. My Kroger coupons weren’t authentic enough. I’m going to need someone to write me an effing letter.
Anyway, my friend and I both were called as new donors around seven forty. My buddy (and a previous plasma donor although he took a year off and is just now starting up again) made it through the hoops. I guess the homelessness hoop sort of clothes-lined me. Maybe I look homeless.
After texting my friend from the waiting area, I left in search of proof that I was not a homeless man. I sent him this text message:
dude…they wont take my mail.
it doesn’t have a post mark date on it.
FML. There’s no such thing as easy money.
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