Post-Grad Life (In Which I Cut My Vagina with Scissors)

Well, I’m finally crawling out of this black hole called procrastination and getting back to my regular schedule. It’s true, I’ve been lacking in the publishing front for about three weeks now. In my defense, I was busy. For example, I watched the second season of Orange is the New Black. I went on vacation. I just ate two bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for dinner. But now, it’s business time. I’ve been promoted to a full-time job and I’ve no more excuses. Plus, I got a sign from the muses (or whichever magical entity blesses me with embarrassing moments) that it was time to write, finally ending the last three weeks spent avoiding writing, convincing myself that I had nothing worth writing about so it was pointless anyway.

This particular sign occurred while I was trimming the pubes. There’s no delicate way to say that. Or maybe there is, but it’s midnight on a Tuesday and I don’t feel like thinking too hard about how to talk about my pubic hairs in a delicate manner. I think normal women get their vaginal areas waxed? I’m not sure. That was never covered in sex ed or by my mother. I tried waxing my upper lip before and cried for like, a day, so needless to say I avoid waxing like I avoid buying condoms in public. Instead, I do my best to shave everything I can, and when the unshaveable stuff gets too long, I trim it with scissors.

I was visiting my mom’s house when I discovered it was getting a little, uh, unkempt down there. With my mom’s room to myself, I grabbed a pair of scissors and a trash can and stood in front of the TV while some Ryan Reynolds movie played on TBS. I know what you’re thinking. I’m pretty fucking classy. So I’m getting super into this movie because Ryan Reynolds is playing some endearing father and Abigail Breslin is his sassy daughter and it’s adorable as a basket of baby chinchillas when all of a sudden I feel a sharp sting. When I look down, I realize I just cut my vagina with the scissors. My first instinct was to panic. And then keep panicking. I grabbed a tissue and held it up to the cut, which kept bleeding without showing signs of stopping, and all I could think about was how I was going to bleed out from a vagina cut because it’s not like you can put a bandaid on your fucking labia and oh god my tombstone was going to read “Death by pube trimming”. I sat in front of the TV for at least ten minutes, clutching a tissue to my vagina while Ryan Reynolds experienced some cathartic father-daughter moments on the screen. The bleeding eventually stopped and I’m still alive, albeit shaken up by the whole experience. I am now much more careful when trimming, making sure there’s nothing nearly that engaging on TV. In the end, the true moral of this story is that the best way to cure writers block is to cut your genitals with scissors.

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