You know the first day or two of your period? It’s so fucking heavy it reminds you of the elevator scene in The Shining?
So you wear the biggest, purplest, most absorbent tampon on the planet. Tampax brand. Because you know.
Inside your knickers you put the biggest, purplest, most mattress-like pad there is. Always brand. Because you know.
You do this 13 seconds before running to bed, so you have the minimum amount of clean tampon-time OUTSIDE bed. No minutes to be wasted.
You somehow fall asleep despite feeling like your womb is about to fall out, and is torrentially gushing red rain as it does so.
You wake in the morning. Oh God. My womb did not fall out. I know because it is making me feel like throwing up.
Then as those six and a half seconds of acknowledging your shitty predicament pass, you notice parts of you feel damp.
Males: “Oh. I must have sweat a little last night. One of my balls is stuck to a leg, the other to my penis.” He’ll probably skip out of bed to the shower and start his day.
Females: “Shit. Is it blood or sweat? I know it’s blood. I know it. Let’s pretend it might be sweat.” You’ll try to turn over without dislodging Tampax and Always’ gift to women. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to a doggy position (an extremely unerotic one), and try to take in a 360 view. Impossible. Try to jump off the bed without anywhere between your navel and knees contacting material. You will always try. You will always fail.
Having bounced off the bed… Actually nothing like a bounce. …You now know it’s not sweat. Two choices. (1) Dart for the bathroom in hopes you can outrun blood (2) Acknowledge there is no way you can beat the blood, and examine your sheets.
Oh wow. Somehow they’re clean! We have thirteen periods each year. In two or three (max) cases our sheets make it through unscathed. Yet each time… “wow. look..” No you idiot. It’s right there!
And you spot it. Hello lady. I’m hee-errr. And the blood waves at you. Often at the exact time as the inside-blood punches you. Hard. Off to the bathroom. The damage has already been done here.
Off to the bathroom. Fuck you. There will be no skipping. There will be flipping off. Sitting on the toilet emptying your bladder. Feeling clots pour out of you, while simultaneously wondering how there is blood up the entire front AND back of your undies. You don’t even sleep on your front. The wonders of the reproductive cycle.
You dump the offending tampon and pad in the garbage. They make a loud “fwump” sound. They weigh 31 lbs. They aren’t offending though. They stopped you from a Noah’s Ark-esque experience upon a sea of blood.
Quick shower. It’s pretty difficult to see blood in a shower, but your womb is up for the challenge. Of course he is. There is no way that is a female being. After the shower you have to rush and shove toilet paper up your vagina. Before you get that tell-tale red trickle down your leg.
Once dressed. Still in agony. But clean enough to move. You remember the sheets. How the fuck is this allowable? This is probably around the time that a male in your life will ask for you to pass him a knife to spread butter leisurely on his gradually cooked toast. You may stab him with it. Perfectly reasonable if you ask me. You refrain, walk by, and utter “No. I’m bleeding.” To which he scoffs “big fucking deal drama queen.”
Game on bitches! Game on.