Yes, you heard that right. I’m a bloody snot monster. Despite the discrimination I have faced my whole life, recently I have become proud of my identity. But the COVID testing site is stirring up years of trauma I thought were behind me. Every time I approach the folding table with my vial (properly labeled with my name and date of birth) I know I will be shamed for the copious amount of blood and snot lathering my swab. The employees hand me swab after swab, trying to get a clean one back, but each time they see more gunk, I see the hatred behind their eyes.
Look, I’m sorry I hemorrhage and ooze from every nook and cranny, and I know the test works best when the swab isn’t covered in schmutz. But this is the twenty-first century. Let’s try to be more accepting and inclusive, no? Do you really think one nose-blow in an outhouse-lookin’ cubicle was going to clear my sinuses of all their sanguinated pus? Let’s be realistic here! Let’s not conform to the nasal norms of the past.
And by the way, it’s fucking March. What do you expect? It’s cold and dry. Lamb season ain’t for another couple weeks or so. The chilly Willy aridity has lacerated my nostrils leaving naught but a Tigris and Euphrates of sniveling coagulum. And I’m sorry! But it’s who I am! And Williams does not respect that.
Fifteen. It took fifteen fucking Q-tips until the testing lady said they’d have to reduce my financial aid package to pay for wasted supplies. These jerks care about their beloved Q so much you’d think they were at the Capitol in January. Well I wasn’t! I’m a proud American! I would never betray our democracy! My blood is red, white, and blue. But you’d know that already if you worked at the testing center. There’s also some green and beige but whatever! I’m a melting pot. It’s who I am! I’m a bloody snot monster through and through and there’s nothing you can do to change that. At the very least, show me some respect.