I've seen and experienced a lot of creepy things while bleeding at the plasma center. I've gotten used to the needles and watching the blood flow out of my arm. I've been able to be amused by the way the milkers sometimes forget you're there when they're talking to each other about their lawns, what they had for dinner and how much they don't like such-and-such because he/she is incompetent.
Let me tell. That last one will make you perk right up and try to see if they'll the name again.
The worst, even worse than listening to Rain King by the Counting Crows (seriously, don't do that) on the way to the bank or converting the cash to be used to buy cat litter is sitting, pinned to a chair with the tube snaking out of your arm and watching Matlock on television.
Imagine this is the way it's going to end for you: reclining in a bed in a utilitarian place with fluorescent lights and hooked up to a machine. You're surrounded by strangers and technicians who think of you most of the time as a job to do, a chore to complete. What a terrible way to go, utterly alone, except for the the company of the immortal Andy Fucking Griffith.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a word from our sponsor. It's the man from U.N.C.L.E.. He wants us to sue the shit out of somebody or maybe buy gold. Neither seem too likely.