Reaching out to the inner wuss

A boy is born and grows up in millitary hospitals. As he grows up, he is subjected to an endless flow of nubile young WAF Nurses who are used to sticking it to soldiers as hard as they can, perhaps in retliation for their latest forgotten night in the barracks, and the word "gentle" is never more powerful than the words "stick this little enlisted brat so I can get out of here and go dancing at the O Club." Genle ain't in their vocabulary, because usually...they poke soldiers who don't give a shit about that kind of pain.

Needless to say, Needles and I have dislike for each other. Deep rooted, unlikely to ever go away...

I was also cursed with my Mother's veins, which hide at the mere sniff of that antiseptic medical facility air. I rarely ever manage to bleed on the first try (today was no different)...which has often made me feel that I could, potentially, survive a stabbing someday depending on where they insert the knife. I bruise bad with a needle, too...because they have to wiggle it around to try and tap the river.

Today, I got two sticks. The first was bone dry, after much digging. The second went in the only vein she could find...right on the bend of the side of my elbow.

Hurts like a motherfucker. And I type all day.

This. Sucks.