There are days when I find myself thinking that people just don’t like me, and I don’t know why. For example, the other day I went to donate blood. That’s an admirable thing to do, right? Well get this – when I asked the nurse how much blood I should donate, she said “All of it.” I was so offended I considered rolling up my anger-management workbook and smacking her with it. But I didn’t, because I know I’m a good person.
The nurse said something about my not having any clothes on. Like somehow the blood inside a nudist is inferior to that from other people. Who knew nurses could be so judgmental?
But this isn’t some one-time thing. It happens more than I’d like to admit. A week after the blood drive I was standing in line at Starbucks. I saw my life-coach sitting in a booth with another woman. So I got a coffee and slipped quietly into the booth behind them. And I heard my coach say “Jesus, working with this Sullivan guy has convinced me that I need to be doing something else. You’re a life-coach, what should I do next?”
And then there was the time I parked next to a guy with one of those Harvard University stickers on his car. We exited our vehicles at the same time and I said “Man, this is really nice for a used car.” And when the guy said “Why do you think I bought it used?” I pointed to the sticker.
The guy got mad and I have no idea why. I don’t know what’s wrong with all these people. But it doesn’t matter, because I know that I’m a good person. Hell, we all are.
I feel your pain brother. I’m such a good person that they just refuse to accept my blood and it’s only happened since I began operating on random people in hospitals. It’s almost and I might be wrong here, that they’re tying to tell me something.
Really good people are only appreciated after they are dead. Then they’re canonized and everybody knows what good people they were.