Ladies, I'm sorry about the tampon. It was Sunday, June 17, post Pride parade, and I was at Powell's meeting a friend for coffee. I knew my tampon was failing, but you know how it is when the conversation is good—the world tends to stop. Unfortunately, not so for my little red visitor. I finally made my way to the bathroom, and I was not prepared for the scene that greeted me when I finally made it into a stall. It was like a deleted scene from Game of Thrones, deemed too bloody for HBO. My entire uterus appeared to be hanging from the string, like the world's worst Christmas ornament. I freaked out and tried to wipe the blood trails off my thighs and figure out if I should put my underwear in my bag, or in the trash. I realized that not only had I bled through an entire tampon plus my underwear, but the whole seat and inseam of my shorts was soaked. In my haste to get home before I passed out, I forgot to flush. Despite what philosophizin' feministas will tell you about de-stigmatizing menstrual blood, it is downright gross to see someone else's goo swimming around in the toilet. And so, again I say: Ladies, I'm sorry about the tampon.—Anonymous
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