They found me. I don’t know how, but they found me

Tonight, while cooking dinner, the phone rang and I stupidly answered without checking the caller ID first. I should have known better. They had been calling me for weeks – often hanging up when they got my answering machine, but the caller ID doesn’t lie. I know it was them – the blood donation people.

Still scared to donate blood since the last incident, I wasn’t going to be easily swayed by their pleadings. Thinking they wouldn’t ask questions, I simply told the blood donor lady, “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m not eligible.”

But that wasn’t enough for her. She was out for, well, blood. When she questioned why I was no longer eligible, I quickly grabbed one of the blood donor questionnaire forms I now keep by my bedside. I wanted a case so air tight, she couldn’t dream of poking holes in it. So I decided to shoot the moon: I told her I wasn’t eligible because I had lost weight when I was recently imprisoned in sub-Sahara Africa, where I had lots of sex with gay hookers, not to mention shared needles with the other intravenous drug users who later gave me my new tattoo.

Heh, that should show her.

But I think she was more impressed than scared by my answer. From the silence that followed I could tell she was flipping through her manual for the proper response, but was having trouble finding it. But these blood donor people just don’t take “no” for an answer. She told me they’d try again in a few months. So now that I’ve blown my load and used every excuse in the book, I need to start brainstorming ideas for when they call back. Please let me know if you have any ideas. I’m either going to have to come up with something better or go into hiding.