Less than a year out of college, making barely enough to cover my student loans and no-frills living expenses, I only wore shirts that covered my elbows.
I desperately wanted to put money aside to travel internationally, move for a better job, and get ahead. So twice a week, I drove to a clinic at the edge of town, rolled up my sleeve, turned my head and squeezed my eyes shut as a technician stuck a needle in the crook of my arm and siphoned my plasma. I was not proud of this. It felt shady. It probablywas shady.
This was the price I paid to pursue a writing career in journalism.