It'll be just a little prick...

July 3, 2002

I hate needles. I hate shots. I will avoid poking a sharp metal probe into my body by any means necessary. If I have to buy pills and be sick for a week to avoid a shot, I'll take it.

My father had a different philosophy. The quicker I could get well, the quicker I could get back to school. So down goes the pants, up goes the ass, in goes the needle.

It's kinda hard to take it like a man when you are in doggy-style position, with your pants around your ankles. I learned pretty quickly that it was the anticipation of the shot that scared me, rather than the shot itself. Nurses would tell me to look away, it'll make me feel better, but that was bullshit. To keep from panicking I had to look. But how the hell was I going to be able to see my ass?

The procedure went like this: the doctor would offer me a choice, pills or needle. I would say pills, of course. My father would then veto. I asked the doctor if I could get the shot in the arm, and the doc would veto that. My dad would ask if I wanted him there, and I would say no, that's OK. He would veto that too.

There was a time that I had to get an allergy shot in each arm, once every two days before school. My dad would drag me out of bed an hour early, haul me to the doc's office, have them pump me full of whatever-the-stuff-was, and then drop me off at school. I remember vividly that the dosage increased each time, so the shot would take longer and longer. At least it wasn't in each butt cheek.

Although it was pretty pointless. I still have allergies.