Can I donate blood if it's not mine?

OK, so after reviewing the previous weeks posts, I have come to the conclusion that I need to make my blog more positive and upbeat!
So my house was broken into today and my PlayStation was stolen . . . 
 . . . 
Shit.
OK. Screw that for a game of monopoly. You ever get the feeling that God should get down off His Almighty High Horse, come down here, fry us all and start again from amoebas? 'Cos that's what I would be praying for tonight if I thought for a second that He gave a monkey's left one about my problems.
Frankly, it could have been worse. My trophy's (online PlayStation achievements) are are redeemable if I get another ps3, and I only had 3 games on the go. 
What really burns me is the fact that they not only stole belongings from me, but time as well. I had put literally weeks of my life into that machine, and now I have nothing to show for it. It's like those 50 hours I spent playing Final Fantasy XIII never existed! . . . .
Well, even the most violent thunderclouds have silver linings, I guess.
 . . . 
They might as well have put me in a time machine and aged me, because as far as my age in terms of bitter world-weariness, I am 140 years old at this stage. That's at least 0.9 Frankie Boyles, or 0.4 John Steinbecks for those Americans who need that converted into metric.
 . . . 
But, as they say, tomorrow is another day. There is always tomorrow. If there's one thing, I've learned, it's that tomorrow is always there.
Waiting.
Waiting for you to slip up, to lose track. Then BAM. It comes and hits you right when you don't want it there, like an automatic door that's developed a malevolent sentience.
Tomorrow's a dick, is what I'm trying to say.
Tomorrow is the guy who brings a guitar to a house party. 
Tomorrow waits until the very end of your story before interrupting and telling one that's not as good, but involves him in some way (taking poetic licence to assume tomorrow is in fact, male. Which sounds about right.). 
Tomorrow doesn't flush. . . EVER.
 . . . 
So yeah, life goes on and all that shit. Really, The odds of me getting my PlayStation back are as likely as The Likely Lads clicking the Like button on licking a leaking lake. Which is to say it's not very likely at all. 
Practically impossible. 
I'm not even sure how that would work.
 . . . 
Now go and lock the door or something.