Why are we so obsessed with broadcasting our identity, like a peacock flaunting its feathers? So, I started trading plasma for plane tickets (cha-ching!), and I couldn’t help but notice the usual suspects shuffling in. There’s this itch, this compulsion to not blend into the crowd, even though I’m queuing up right alongside them. I may feel opposite, but in reality, I am no different from any one of them.

I was naive to the allure of ‘easy money’—it’s like catnip for the cash-strapped, the so-called outcasts of our oh-so-judgmental society. But really, how did that slip my mind?

The drill’s a breeze: strut in, sign up, and as long as you’re not a walking zombie or a protein-poor iron-deficient, you’re as good as gold! Ninety minutes and voilà—you’re a bit richer, and all it takes is a 48-hour breather before you can cash in again.

And here I am, a drop in the bucket of eclectic souls. We’re incognito yet bound by a secret pact: none of us are here for the noble act of donation. Nope, it’s all about the greenbacks.

I dish out one-liners, lock eyes with the staff, and put on my Sunday best (without making it obvious, of course). It feels like a charade, a confirmation of the ego lurking within us all. Despite our altruistic airs and empathetic hearts, we’re slaves to validation, seeking approval in the gaze and thoughts of others. For a rebel like me, who prides herself on shrugging off public opinion, it’s a bit of a bummer—a nudge reminding me that, deep down, I’m just another player in the game of life.