My sister Sammy and I both majored in journalism in college. My dad was never shy about how worthless of a major he thought it was, and one year out of college I probably would have agreed with him. In fact, I think at one point I blogged about how a degree in journalism was about as useful as a degree in drunken bed wetting. Before you get really grossed out, I’ve only done that like, twice in my life. Okay, maybe six or seven times tops. And once in someone else’s pants on a date in a haunted forest in Maryland (wonder why we never had a second date now that I think about it…).
The point is, I think my dad was probably really relieved when my little sister Maddie decided to go to school for nursing—something practical. Something in demand. Something that might be useful when he’s old and can’t take a bowel movement by himself.
One day Maddie sent me the second most terrifying text message I’ve ever seen in my life (the most terrifying being the unprompted dick pic from a guy I barely knew at 3:30 on a Saturday in what my coworker Nick—yes I showed him the dick pic—referred to as a “dick tuxedo.” The caption just said “balls.”)
Maddie: Do you know your blood type?
Me: No do you?
Do you need my blood?
What is going on?
Everything is uncertain.
Maddie: Yes.
Can I have your blood?
Me: Seriously confused.
Why do you need it?
What is going on?
Ahhhhhhh!
Maddie: I need to figure out dad’s blood type. I figured you’d just give me your blood no questions asked.
I already got Sammy’s while she slept.
Me: You’re terrifying.
