Mondays are always pretty crazy for me, and this week’s first workday started out no different than the rest.

Then I remembered my blood drive appointment at the Winnick Hillel Center

for Jewish Life.

Since my blood type is the universal donor, I couldn’t turn down my scheduled donation just because I had a packed day ahead of me. There’s just too much karma at risk.

Sure, I could justify my absence at first if I pledged to donate later, or if I saved a bunch of orphans from a burning building, or maybe if I promised to stop kicking puppies in my spare time. But my friends, family and the cosmic forces that govern the universe all would know that I’m full of crap.

So, I had two choices: Go through with the donation and risk being too woozy to finish my broadcast project, Spanish homework, research paper and humor column all due the next day, or risk getting rammed in the crotch by a blunt object when I least expect it as part of the universe’s revenge on my selfishness.

Besides, even I have a slight sense of morality. So, if I didn’t donate, how could I defend my decision to whatever poor soul needed my blood to survive?

‘Uh, sorry buddy, I was gonna do it last week, but then they showed a ‘Flavor of Love’ marathon on VH1, and now this week I have tons of Spanish to catch up on. But hey, if you believe in reincarnation, maybe you’ll come back to life as one of Flava Flav’s illegitimate children.’

Like it or not, forces outside of my control cornered me into a decision.

I strolled over to Hillel after lunch and signed in at the front desk. Then, in an ill-conceived attempt to hit on the middle-aged staffer administering the pre-donation questionnaire, I peppered the poor woman with as many awkward questions as I could possibly come up with:

‘Pardon me, doctor, does a rash that’s shaped like Otto the Orange count as a ‘persistent infection?’ Or is it just school spirit? If you want I can show it to you…’

‘Excuse me, miss, do intravenous drugs count if you administer them with a sterile needle? I don’t do drugs or anything, but just for future reference…’

‘Hey lady, I’m a little unsure of whether I’m sexually active. Whaddaya say we end the ambiguity right here?’

Eventually we got through the test, and somehow my blood was deemed fit for donation. They stuck a needle in my arm, took a pint of the good stuff, and then told me to lie down for as long as I needed to before I got up.

Thirty minutes, two cans of orange juice and a bag of shortbread cookies later, I still felt like I had just finished a full rack of ribs at Dinosaur Bar-B-Que: woozy, nauseous and stripped of my will to live. Meanwhile, girls half my size were practically doing cartwheels out of the building less than 10 minutes after they finished.

It was humiliating.

Eventually, I managed to drag myself out of the building and walk back to Watson Hall. When I got to my room, I immediately fell face-down on my bed and passed out.

I didn’t wake up until the next morning. I hadn’t done a single assignment. So I got out of bed and packed up my things for class.

Then, I ran crotch-first into a doorknob.

Karma, you’re my daddy.

Danny Fersh is a sophomore broadcast journalism major and his columns appear every Wednesday. He hopes his blood saved a life because his is totally over. Tune into the Fresh Squeeze this week to find out why Danny is so darn sexy. He can be reached at dafersh@syr.edu.