I honestly don’t really know what the fuck is up with me and weird period stories. Most girls have that one story about how in 8th grade they bled through their white jeans at school and were mortified and they learned their damn lesson. I don’t know if it’s my severe (self-diagnosed) ADHD or my genuine state of denial at the fact that once a month “you know what” comes out of “you know where,” either way, I seem to have more embarrassing period-related stories than I have points on my fucking IQ. So here goes yet another crazy period story.
It all started when I matched with this super hot guy named Greg on Tinder. Yes I’m one of thoossseee girls. Judge me. In my opinion, having a Tinder account is like having an asshole- it doesn’t matter how many times you deny having one, everyone knows you’re a fucking liar. That being said, I’m not exactly the “swipe right on Tinder with the expectation of finding my soulmate” kinda girl. Instead, I prefer to use Tinder as more of a personal self confidence booster.
Translation: “How many hard 10s can I match with with zero intentions of actually meeting in real life or even chatting with just to make me feel better about not getting invited to any fraternity formals?” If you think that’s an inappropriate way to exploit the service of Tinder then I respect your opinion but just know I hate you.
Anyway, my adamant personal philosophy of the purpose of Tinder changed when I matched with Greg. In addition to being super hot, he also tried repeatedly to strike up a convo via the little messenger thingy with cute pickup lines as opposed to the classic Tinder pickup line “wanna fuck?” Eventually after being pestered (in a cute, puppy-like way) for over a month I agreed to meet up with Greg in real life. He was perfect. We went to the movies, the pumpkin patch, and eventually he even planned a day trip date to the historical district of our city to visit the old fashioned ice cream shop. How fucking cute, right?
One night after about six weeks of “dating,” Greg came over for a movie night and we both fell asleep lying on my bed watching “Gossip Girl.” Everything seemed to be going great until I woke up around 4am to a horrible, wet, sticky feeling. Terrified, I gingerly lifted up my duvet and peered under to find blood ALL OVER my white sheets. Greg was still fast asleep beside me. Fuck. My. Life. After taking thirty seconds to have a full fledged mental breakdown, I began to collect my thoughts and orchestrate a plan.
The plan: to vigorously shake Greg awake and tell him in an a panicked voice that it sounded like someone was trying to break into my apartment. My bedroom was on the third floor of a three story apartment so him going to “check it out” would involve him walking both up and down two steep flights of stairs which would give me maybe three minutes of time tops.
Greg, wanting to be my “knight in shining armor,” quickly hopped out of bed and began his decent down to confront “the perp.” As soon has he stepped out of my bedroom I began ripping the sheets off the bed, shoving them in my closet, and throwing a new sheet set on. I literally looked like Cinderella if she had low key overdosed on Adderall. I finished switching the sheet set just in time for Greg to walk back into my room and break the news to me that the was no “burglar” to be found (no shit, Einstein). Crisis fucking avoided.
Some might read this and assume that the moral of the story is to diligently track your period and be prepared for such a crisis. This is NOT the moral of the story. The moral of THIS story is to always have an extra identical sheet set and a mental list of somewhat far fetched lies that any frat guy with an IQ lower that yours will believe. That is all..