To cover some of my expenses during law school, I donate plasma. I drive across town to Fort Bowie Boulevard, where you have to drive carefully to avoid hitting the homeless men who sprint across the street carrying wine bottles. There's always at least one. I turn left into the Grifols Biomat USA parking lot, walk inside, endure a brief, dehumanizing screening that involves a pin prick and a questionnaire, and then, upon passing, am allowed to have the blood drawn out of my body by a buzzing white machine.

It’s strange to watch the first thread of gore climb up the plastic tube that connects my arm to the machine. With fleeting satisfaction I note that I bleed Aggie maroon. (Despite my best efforts, I could never manage the same for BYU).

They tell me to pump my fist so I bleed out faster.

After a few minutes, the machine stops, beeps, and then graciously returns the blood platelets back to my body, minus the plasma they were swimming in. This pools in a plastic container beside me, clear at first, then urine-colored, transitioning to a grim orange if I’ve eaten at Taco Bell in the previous week.

Once a liter or so of plasma has been withdrawn, the machine pumps saline into my arm to replace the fluids I’ve lost, a nurse wraps my arm in garish pink bandage, and I’m on my way.

We plasma donors pretend that we’re good people, like blood donors, but we’re really in it for the $35 Biomat deposits on our cards every time we visit. We call ourselves donors because it sounds nicer than more honest titles like “blood bags” or “platelet prostitutes.”

We are a motley crew, united despite our vast differences by a single common thread: each of us wants money badly enough that we are willing to swap our literal blood for it. No Wall Street Wolf can match our commitment to the capitalist ideal.

Texas A&M gets my sweat and tears, but my blood goes to the highest bidder.