“Are you sure this is all necessary, Doc?”
He laughed. “Of course! You’ll be fine. Trust me.”
I hated the way he said that.
But I didn’t have time to protest, they were already giving me the anethesia.
Before I went under, I thought to myself, Aw crud.

The doctors had explained several times why exactly I needed “the surgery.” But in those explanations, I began to realize something.
I didn’t understand squat.
I guess that’s what happens when one recieves a Ph.D or runs for public office; one loses the ability to clearly communicate.

Much later, I began to stir. I rubbed my eye.
Then, with my bleary drug-enduced vision, I took a good look at my hand.
I don’t think surgery is supposed to make a person’s skin turn seventeen different colors on contact.
I asked for the container which had held the blood which was now probably running wild in my circulation.
Blood Type: Z
Z? Never heard of that. I groped for a book.
My eyes widened at the explanation of Blood Type Z.
“Aw frick.”