Saturday, July 19, 2008
In March I took antibiotics that put a hold on my plasma donations. I only became eligible to donate again in late June. The plasma donation center ran tests that showed my blood is still abnormal. I cannot donate, again, for two months. This translates to a monthly loss of two hundred dollars' income. Ach.
I nodded at the phlebotomist and somberly left the office, but recently wondered whether I ought not call the center to find out what "abnormal" means. Do I have AIDS? Are there vicious, alien lifeforms using my platelets as surfboards?I finished reading an edition, published in 1978, of selections from Byron's poetry corpus. Most lines, with the exception of Don Juan and a few stanzas here and there, induced sleep. The editor's notes hardly illuminated anything. Many of the notes written for the numerous classical references over-simplified or led to popular (but not wholly accurate) interpretation. The copy hurt meine Augen.
Byron wrote best when he dared be bold.
Labels: AIDS, antibiotics, blood, Byron, classicism, heart, income, phlebotomist, plasma, poetry, reading
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 8:22 PM]