Tag Archive: panic


I’ve been menstruating since, like, sixth grade. Blood coming out of my body is not necessarily a new thing.

But, um, that blood comes out of my vagina. And it’s regular, you know? Like, I can pretty much count on it.  And when I forget about it, I just have to remember the last time I cried in my bed for three days in a row for no particular reason (e.g. Drew uses the last of the milk on his second bowl of cereal Christmas morning; a stranger at Meijer gives me a dirty look; a Folgers Coffee commercial on TV) and I’ll realize that it’s about that time again.

But, this morning, when I realized that my body was gushing blood, I freaked the fuck out.

I do not like blood. I’d be, like, the worst vampire ever. It makes me queasy. Ever since Drew wrecked his face and I had to run from the neighbor’s house at age 5 (or something?) to tell our parents Drew’s lip was … not really on his face anymore, things just haven’t been okay for me and Blood. Even when it comes out of my vagina, I have to distance myself from it; I have to pretend it’s not really blood. Ugh. I have the willies just thinking about it.

Anyway, this gushing blood? It was not coming from my ladybox.

(Sorry I talked about my vagina, Drew.)

I can’t even tell you the last time I had a bloody nose.

Even though I’m clumsy as fuck and run into shit all the time, I haven’t hit my nose in a way that makes it bleed. When Drew chucked a tennis ball at my face, my nose didn’t bleed.

I wasn’t even participating in a strenuous activity. Nothing happened. There was no trauma to my face.

(This leads me to believe that something exploded in my brain and that I’m probably going to die.)

I was driving to work this morning, just driving along listening to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone on CD when OUT OF NOWHERE my nose started gushing blood. Literally. I couldn’t get a Kleenex to my face fast enough. There was SO MUCH BLOOD. And it was everywhere.

I was so ill-equipped.  What, with the almost-empty, smashed-to-hell box of Kleenex I keep in my car, the fact I was driving at a barely-legal 78 miles an hour on I-96 at 8am, and OH YEAH I HAVE NEVER HAD A BLOODY NOSE AND ALL OF MY FIRST-AID TRAINING APPARENTLY FLEW OUT OF MY BRAIN IN A PANIC BECAUSE I DO NOT POSSESS GRACE UNDER FIRE.

My intention was that I would be able to stop at Starbucks or Beaners (fuck that, I refuse to call it Biggby) to grab a caramel macchiato or chai latte (respectively) and make it to work on time. Ohhhh, no. That did not happen, although I did pull into the Starbucks parking lot to try to stop the bleeding. To no avail.

I drove the rest of the way to work with a Kleenex shoved up my nose while I called my mother in a panic (she didn’t pick up; she doesn’t love me.) and machine gun-like sobs escaped from my lungs. I cried my way to work with a Kleenex shoved up my left nostril.

So attractive.

When I finally got to work, it looked like I had killed someone.

There was blood ALL OVER my scarf (the one Drew brought home for me from VIENNA!), my coat, the steering wheel in my car, my pants, both of my hands and all down my arms.

I was a fucking mess.

Seriously, that kid on youtube who got all upset about the blood? You know what I’m talking about: BLOOD?! NOT FUNNYYYYYYY!!! He was fucking right.

I even opened the first aid kit I keep in my car for sanitizing wipes to wipe all of the blood off of my hands and the steering wheel.  It only kinda worked, though, because the first aid kit is kinda old and it has been sitting in my car for a while so the wet-wipe thing I used was dried out.  So, mostly, I dumped a fuck-ton of antibacterial hand gel everywhere and wiped with the not-wet-at-all wet-wipe (because I DIDN’T HAVE ANYMORE KLEENEX LEFT!). Things didn’t really work out for me this morning as I was self-conscious about my bloody-ness all day long.

Here’s the silver lining though: at least this didn’t happen on a Monday. My whole week would have been fucked.

(OMG I can’t believe I’m even about to say this- because it’s terrible and very, very offensive, but oh well I’m going to anyway…) All I could think of, though, through the whole ordeal: If I had The HIV, this would be a nightmare. And if I was a hemophiliac, I would be so fucked right now.

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Not too long ago, I got a message on facebook from a family friend. She is younger than me and definitely not of the legal drinking age here in the lovely USofA. Luckily, good old Canada is just next door. So, she asked me to borrow (have) one of my old IDs so she and her friends could cause a raucous among the canucks.

This normally would be no big deal; my moral compass does not frown upon aiding the youth in their drunken debauchery- just ask my angelic brother (keep on fighting that peer pressure, brother bear! love you!).  I thought, oh what the hell! As long as her father does not find out that it was ME who supplied those hooligans with an over-21 ID, then shooooot, those girls better have a good time. I refuse to be held responsible for the corruption.

What? I'm totally fine. Not wobbly at all!

But then I remembered I’m a hot damn mess when I drink. And although I drink waaaay less than I used to (I may have been black-out drunk for the years of 18 and 19), old habits die hard. At 22, I’m responsible. I’m an adult. I make wise choices. I know my limit.

Stop laughing, okay? SOMETIMES I make wise, responsible, adult choices.

ANYWAYYYYY, I accept that I am a heap of trouble after two drinks.

Unfortunately for the family friend who shall remain nameless to protect the innocence of both of us, I had to tell her that I’m irresponsible and lack any identification other than my current ID.

I decided not to share with her all the details as to why I no longer have any past IDs or any extra ones laying around. But, dear readers, I’ll share some of those details with you now.

Junior year of college is when I really started getting sloppy. Or when I just stopped being as accountable for hanging onto my own belongings. Looking back, it seems like sophomore year of college was better because I had other people to hold my stuff when I got too drunk. One winter’s night, I was over-served.  Generally, when this happens, I’m still pretty anal enough to feel the need to brush my teeth, take my contacts out and remove my eye makeup. I’m fairly certain I even changed into some semblance of pajamas (read: no pants).  I can’t remember now how I made it home that evening, but the important part is that I did indeed make it home.

I awoke the next morning with the panic that I had noooo idea where my cute little wristlet was. Frantic, I launched myself out of bed and ran into the living room. There, I found evidence that we had done some “pre-gaming” (the counter and glass table(s) were stickyyyy and a couple of empty fifths remained). I also found that I apparently struggled with my shoes and had made like Hansel and Gretel, leaving a trail not of breadcrumbs but clothing, beginning at the front door. Nowhere in the million pockets of my zip-up fleece (at least that made it home, unlike the one that was STOLEN at that one party… RUDE.) was my wristlet. I checked my jeans. Not there either. Not even looped through one of the belt loops.

I stalked down the girl who lived at the place I had been the night before and sent her a message on facebook, asking her if someone had left a wristlet behind. I scoured mine and Erica’s apartment. I called my other friends, asking if they had it, remembered me having it, or knew where it might be.  NOTHING. No one knew anything.

Begrudgingly, and under the advice of my all-wise mother, I reported my debit card “lost or stolen” and resigned myself to the fact that I had indeed lost that tube of chapstick, a $20 bill, and my wristlet. AND that I would have to give up a perfectly adequate break between classes usually dedicated to a nap to waiting FOREVER at the Secretary of State’s office that Monday.

A WEEK LATER, I finally got around to making my bed. (My dad probably was probably stopping by, lol.)  Before I even got a chance to get busy making hospital corners with my sheets, I noticed there was a lump I didn’t appreciate. Something black and small had found its way underneath the blankets.  CAN YOU GUESS WHAT THAT SMALL BLACK THING WAS?!

My freakin’ wristlet. Filled with my now-canceled debit card, a tube of chapstick, a $20 bill and my driver’s license.

I don't want to talk about it.

FACE-PALM.

I’m an idiot.

I know this story just makes me look like an idiot who just misplaces things only to find them in random-ass places rather than someone who has had to replace her license three times in the last year, but the point was that I’m a shitshow and shouldn’t be allowed to carry my own stuff. I also understand if you think less of me now.

Ps. I now have two driver’s licenses because the one I lost a month ago was magically sent to me in the mail. If only she had waited one more week to go to Canada…!