I knew I would forget something crucial. Clearly, I was in some kind of fugue state when I agreed to host this event, something I had previously avoided. People come and go, sharing intimate details in an almost performative way, before ghosting the group like the women in my short-lived knitting circle. In that case, I recognize banning wine was unpopular, but it seemed counterproductive to stumble out of the yarn shop with a midmorning buzz and immediately consume three egg-and-cheese sandwiches from the bodega next door.
Inevitably, Sharon pointed out how I was the only regular group member who hadn’t hosted. As she turned to me, smug in her red peasant blouse from “the most amazing trip to Barthelona,” pronouncing it in her insufferable attempt at a Spanish accent, I imagined shoving her off of her chair, portable cushion and all.
I’ve definitely made progress. Before my first meeting, I was attending multiple blood-letting rituals every week, spending a fortune on antique fleams and personalized collection buckets. It’s hard to describe the thrill of watching a volunteer—we were very meticulous in choosing the bleeder, still recovering from a prior claim of coercion in the Costco bread aisle—sit down in the reclining chair.
My sister was the one to suggest I might be taking it too far. Her serious tone meant she was either worried about me or, more likely, annoyed that I asked to meet at the mall, hoping to swing by the hat kiosk to search for a new black mourning bonnet.
“You need to stop the bloodletting. It’s weird.”
That was pretty much her entire intervention. Still, her words stuck in my head. Maybe I was blood-letting a little too much? I vowed to check out just one meeting, and decide from there.
“Welcome, everyone. Let’s begin with the member pledge.”
In unison, the circle of people recited from a laminated sheet posted on the wall, “We must work to control our bloodlust. Change is possible, if we submit to the wisdom of the Prince of Darkness.”
Looking around, I located the group leader, sitting casually in his black cape, eating cookies speared on the end of his red pitchfork, crumbs accumulating in his beard. Everyone at the meetings was supposed to be anonymous, and it was really frowned on to call anyone by name, so I played it cool.
And now here I am, hosting my first meeting, napkins forgotten in my haste to properly set the mood, running low on black tulle with only half of the lamps fully draped.
Giving up blood-letting has been a difficult journey, but I know I’m on the right path. I think the Devil would be proud to recognize his influence on me, more powerful than any pleasure I could find in the slow and messy drainage of life from a volunteer I recruited near the giant muffin flats in Costco.
Welcome, friends. Grab a paper towel, and let’s begin.
INSTANT NOODLES 