So it’s Sunday morning and I just groggily opened my eyes, trying to recollect what happened the night before. First thought: “Oh fuck.” To sum up last night’s experiences in four words, “Did that actually fucking happen?” (Okay, so that’s technically five words, but everyone knows “fucking” isn’t included in the word count.)
Let me just start by casually mentioning that my boyfriend Chad and I broke up Friday night, so my emotions were high, and Saturday night was a shit show. It was Game Day, which entailed the usual pregame, tailgating with fraternities, posting up at the bars to drink (and kind of watch the game, but not really), and continue on bar hopping until the end of the night — standard weekly routine. Through my obliteration, I had somehow managed to get separated from all my friends AND lose my wristlet which held my phone, ID, credit cards, and cash in it. So, like any drunk bitch with no friends, no phone, no money, and no ride home, I sat down on the curb hoping my problem would magically solve itself.
God must have heard my mental pleas, because as I sat there alone, James appeared. Necessary background: James is not only a friend of my ex Chad, but they also work at the same bar. Was this a recipe for disaster? Yes. Was I about to turn down a ride home? Hell no, I was not. Praise the Lord, I was now a believer in miracles.
No sooner than we were en route home did lights and sirens flip on behind us. It’s ironic how the colors red, white, and blue symbolize freedom until they are in the form of lights flashing behind you. Fuckkkk. James had been pulled over because he had failed to use his blinker when making a turn; a lame infraction for the massive consequence he was about to pay. The cop proceeded to question him about where we had been, where we were going, and if we’d had anything to drink, at which time James was asked to get out of the car and take an old-fashioned sobriety test. Which he failed.
The minutes following were a drunken blur. James was arrested for driving while intoxicated and taken away to jail in a cop car. I, on the other hand, was no more than a wasted Jane Doe to the cops considering I still no form of identification whatsoever. Well, I take that back. I DID have an ID but it didn’t correctly ID me. I always keep my fake in my bra, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to give the cop that. The cop gave me a quick questioning to try and figure out how much James and I actually had to drink and finished by asking “Do you always let bartenders drive you home?”
Rude. And as a matter of fact, I do. Chad normally takes me home after work. The irony. I was then instructed to call someone I knew to pick me up because it was going to take him another two plus hours to get the car towed…but as I mentioned, I had no phone and consequently no contacts. I’m an out-of-state student so there was no way in hell my parents could pick me up and the only person’s number I had memorized in the entire state? Chad.
If I said my conversation with Chad on the policeman’s phone was awkward as fuck, that’d be an understatement. After giving him a quick summary of my unfortunate situation I tried to mention to him as casually as possible that the guy driving me home was his coworker AND friend. He was pissed. It turned out that Chad was still at work and unable to get me, so once again it was just me and the grumpy police officers who once AGAIN informed me that I wouldn’t be able to get a ride home with them for another two hours. Thanks, boys. Got the message the first time.
Fifteen minutes into my estimated two-hour wait, I got a really bad feeling. I needed to take care of Mother Nature’s monthly gift — not take care of it in two hours, not take care of it in ten minutes, not even take care of it right now. I should have taken care of this two hours ago.
I stepped out of James’ car, drunkenly stumbled right up to the police car, and knocked on the window. The cop rolled down the window.
“What can I do for you, Miss?” the officer asked in a slightly exasperated tone.
“I need to go home,” I slurred in as serious of a voice as I could muster.
“I already told you ma’am, it’s gonna be at least another two hours until the tow truck gets here and until then we can’t leave,” the officer said.
“No you don’t understand sir. I need to get home N-O-W,” I spelled out.
“Im sorry ma’am but.” he started.
“I’m having a really bad “girl week” if you know what I’m saying..” I interrupted.
“Ma’am I understand this has been an emotional weekend for you but there’s nothing I can do.” (LMAO. Does this idiot think “girl week” means I’m just sad and stressed and need a cheeseburger or something?)
At that moment I’d completely hormonally lost my patience and I whipped a tampon out of my bra and aggressively shoved it in the male police officer’s face through the window of the police car
“IM ON MY FUCKING PERIOD AND AM BLEEDING THROUGH MY $250 HUDSON JEANS! I NEED A BATHROOM RIGHT NOW!” I screamed like a fucking lunatic.
Yep. Psycho period bitch strikes yet again. Apparently that was enough to terrify Officer Asshole into getting me home because right away he pulled out his little radio and requested immediate backup. Within three minutes another police car was at the scene. I quickly hopped in the back like a fucking degenerate and the officer flicked on the lights and sirens and sped me home literally as fast as humanly possible.
Moral of the story? Don’t get in the car with your ex’s drunk best friend and coworker? Nah. The moral of this story is that if you pull the ‘psycho bitch on her period’ card to a police officer, you will avoid getting in a LOT of trouble. Plus, you’ll get to ride in the back of a lit up cop car. That is all..
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