Tag Archives: boyfriends

PMS, Period Diarrhea, and The Missing Tampon String

This morning I got my period. This isn’t usually a pleasant experience for anyone, but for me it’s particularly bad. The week leading up to my period, I get PMS, which stands for: “I am a fragile baby animal with many emotions”. Once, in the throes of PMS, I sat on the kitchen floor crying because we ran out of peanut butter. Two nights ago, PMS reared its ugly head and I sobbed to Boyfriend that I had no friends and our cat didn’t even like me even though I literally only adopted him so that I could have a friend. In addition to my breakdowns, I get period-diarrhea, headaches, cramps, and several times throughout the day I have to peek inside my pants because I think my period started when it actually hasn’t. I imagine my uterus snickering, “Made you look!” every time this happens.

When my period finally hits, the first day is like full-on periodgeddon. The diarrhea comes full force, chunky blood (yes, I said chunky) gushes out of me like Niagara Falls, and my uterus cramps so bad I can do nothing but ingest a ton of extra-strength ibuprofen and curl into fetal position (THIS IS SADLY NOT AN EXAGGERATION). Today is no different. Except now I have a cat. He’s usually kind of a douche but he was very loving today, which turned out to be weird when I sat on the toilet letting the diarrhea flow and he jumped onto my lap, purring. I was torn between being grossed out or touched but he was too happy to move so I let it happen.

Anyway, I’m writing this post because I was g-chatting Boyfriend while he was at work, relaying every gruesome detail about my nether regions with a sadistic pleasure. He offered to get me more tampons because I was running out, so I sent him a picture of the EXACT box (Playtex/Sports/Super+Regular) that I wanted lest he become lost in the tampon aisle. I told him I believed in him before excusing myself to change my tampon. In the bathroom, I couldn’t find the tampon string. This happens occasionally, and normally it’s squished up against my vagina. But this time was different. This time it took me a minute to discover there was no string. Meaning, there was only one place to look. INSIDE MY BLOODY VAGINA. When this realization struck me, I cried. Then I texted my mother and sister calmly stating, “I CANT FIND MY TAMPON STRING HELP ME”. I then g-chatted my boyfriend updating him on the terrifying turn this day took (panicked, he asked if I should go to the doctor, but after consulting the interwebs I informed him tampons are too big to fit through the cervix, duh, so the only place it could be was my vagina and the only way to get it was to dig around and aren’t you glad you’re a man?!). Knowing what was coming, I stood in the bathroom crying “fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck nononononono”. I really didn’t want to dig around for this stupid fucking tampon. It’s not like it would harm me to do so. It’s just that at that moment, the thought of sticking a fist into my bloody vaginal depths made me feel a little nauseous. I accept that I’m a wimp.

After many minutes of a self-pep-talk, I finally bit the bullet. My fingers plunged in (it wasn’t nearly as nice as the last time my fingers were in there) and searched around for a while until I finally grasped the string. And, as I pulled it, I discovered the end of the string was burrowed into my butt crack. What a beautiful ending to the story. When my hand emerged from down below and I threw the vindictive tampon away, I looked as if I had plunged my hand into somebody’s chest and ripped out their heart. Now I know what it would look like if I had tried to stop someone from bleeding out. I vigorously washed my hands as my cat sat in the corner wondering who the fuck I had just murdered. People make fun of me for preferring pads but this NEVER WOULD HAVE HAPPENED if I was wearing a pad. Ugh. I’m ready for a hysterectomy.

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Sticks and Stones will Break My Bones and Also Words Are the Worst :(

I’m sensitive. Really fucking sensitive. Like, if someone critiques my work in a non-professional environment (i.e. random troll from internet/my ex-boyfriend’s aunt) I get all sweaty and shaky. I can clearly recognize my sensitivity problem, and yet when someone points it out to me I want to simultaneously cry a thousand tears and rip their face off (a perfect example of being too sensitive). Let us observe some more examples of my off-the-charts sensitivity.

  • When I got my driver’s license at 16, my picture was beyond horrible (still is actually, since I never changed it). I look 10x tanner than I am, which would be good for some people, but for me it made me look, as one friend put it, “like a wood person. You know, like you’re from a race of people made out of wood”. The flash of the camera caused a diamond-shaped white blotch on my forehead, giving me the resemblance of a Palomino horse. My hair is unbrushed and I’m wearing a “Wicked” shirt (which most people think is on purpose but in reality was a result of not looking at my clothes when I put them on). When my sister and mom got hold of my license, they laughed so hard they started crying. I was crying for an entirely different reason. Please see the picture below and promise not to blackmail me.

Drivers License

  • I recently asked my boyfriend if I was “high maintenance, medium maintenance, or low maintenance”. Clearly fishing for a “low maintenance”, I received a “low-to-high maintenance”, which in hindsight totally isn’t that bad. But instead, I gasped and punched him in the nipple and he said “You’re kind of proving my point” and then I was upset the rest of the night.
  • I decided to tell my dad the plot of the first screenplay I had ever written (which took me months of work), and after I had finished, he said, “You know what would be even better? If in the end the guy actually had committed the murder”. By writing off the entire third act of my first screenplay (which, yes, is terrible), I could barely suppress my tears-slash-anger at my father. What sucked even more was that even though I was in school for this exact thing and he had never taken a single class, therefore giving me an air of superiority, I liked his freaking ending better than the one I had. I don’t really remember exactly how I reacted, but I guarantee it wasn’t a jolly ol’ “Thanks for the feedback, Pops.”

I could give you 8 million more examples of me being overly sensitive, ESPECIALLY in relationships (I have no idea how Boyfriend puts up with me). And while I want to get better at this in my personal life, I need to get better at it in my professional life. The more people that read my blog, the more opinions there are about it. While a lot of them are very positive, we all know that everyone has opinions and some of them are negative and even valid. So, my goal for 2015 (particularly because I want to be in a profession that depends on public feedback) is to accept legitimate criticisms with an air of maturity. And for the people who put me down just to be a troll, well… I’m going to work on not give a flying fuck what the aunt of my ex-boyfriend thinks about the fact that I curse.

EDIT: I asked my sister to read this post and give me feedback and she said in a complete deadpan, “It’s fine.””That’s it? Just, ‘It’s fine’? Things you liked, didn’t like?” “There’s not much I can say. It’s just fine. Remember, taking criticism!” She said that last part with the most in-your-face-shit-eating-grin and I now want to rip my hair out. Clearly this is a work in progress.

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Apparently I Have an Abnormally High Sex Drive

I’m pretty sure I’m the stereotypical guy in every relationship. It doesn’t help that to start off I’m not a very “girly” person. I rarely wear makeup, I fail at shaving my legs consistently, and when I try and shop for semi-nice clothes I always end up buying six graphic t-shirts. I literally called my mother the other day to ask if it was okay to pee while wearing a tampon (The answer is Yes, or in my mother’s words, “What are you, 12? The urethra is a completely different thing from your uterus”). That’s how bad I am at being a girl.

None of this really bothers me, though. What bothers me is that I always seem to have a higher sex drive than all the guys I date. Don’t get me wrong; I’m definitely not obsessed with sex or anything. I’m just always the one to start it. And if we go a certain number of days without sex, the number is like one of those flipcharts at a warehouse, except instead of Days Without Injury, it’s Days Without Sex. This was first called to my attention when an Ex and I were doing a Seventeen Magazine Couples Quiz. Yes, I want to kill myself right now too. So, we were doing this stupid quiz, and one of the questions was, “Would you say your sex drive is low, normal, or high?” Ex subsequently puts his foot in his mouth and replies, “Yours is definitely higher than mine.” I had a sudden flashback montage reliving all of our Sexy Times in which, yep, I definitely started it every time. I became instantly embarrassed at my apparent tendency to be a sex-crazed horndog (although this shouldn’t have come as a surprise considering I told a guy I loved him just to get in his pants).

Since that moment, I’ve been acutely aware that I seem to have a higher sex drive than most of the boys I date. (Thanks Seventeen Magazine, for ruining my life one couples quiz at a time). I’m the one trying to feel up my boyfriend during a movie while he distractedly pushes my hand away so he can appreciate the dialogue. I’m the one trying to make out with my boyfriend at eleven pm while he explains he has work in the morning and has to get up early. And I’m the one who gets antsy if we haven’t had sex in a week and worries why it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. It wasn’t until I had a conversation with a female friend who echoed my sentiments that I didn’t feel like a complete freak. And honestly maybe it just seems weird because in our culture, guys are the ones who are typically portrayed as wanting sex all the time. Well, whatever. I have now come to terms with the fact that, yes, I have a higher sex drive than the boys I date. No, it does not mean I’m a sex addict. No, it does not mean they’re not attracted to me. Yes, I need to learn how to properly masturbate and get over my fear of vibrators. But that’s a story for another post.

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I Asked a Guy Out. He Said No.

Freshman year of college I was ecstatic about the possibility of dating. I went to a very, very small high school and didn’t date at all, so when I started undergrad with 16,000 other undergrads, half of whom had a penis, I knew there had to be at least one boy who would ask me out. I was wrong. Instead of focusing on the fact that out of 8,000 guys, none had the courage/drive/willingness to ask me out, I decided that I was going to take the initiative. So, as a freshman filled with the boundless sense of possibility, I decided to ask a guy out. I had the perfect target: Cute Boy from one of my smaller classes, who I had hung out with once outside of class and got positive vibes from (We watched the Dark Knight in his common room together! There was minimal space between us on the couch!). The week before I mustered up the courage to ask him out was spent giving myself a pep talk about progressive women and the badassery of Sadie Hawkins and how fucking awesome I would be for asking a guy out instead of waiting the other way around.

Since I’m a perfectionist, I wanted the actual asking out to be creative and perfect. The Google Search Story was extremely popular at this point, and Google even made a tool to make your own video in the style of the heartwarming commercial. I set to work, inputting all the things Cute Boy and I had in common, incorporating searches like “Asking out a friend” and “The Dark Knight showtimes”. I had the perfect opportunity to show it to Cute Boy when we were paired together on a project. Heart beating wildly, I asked him to stop by my dorm to check out the progress I made on our project. He skated over that night (he was in college and still had a skateboard. He was that cool) and I could barely contain my excitement as he sat down in front of my laptop and pressed ‘Play’.

He watched the whole thing with me hovering awkwardly over his shoulder. When the video finished, he turned to me. Except, instead of the embarrassed but flattered smile I was expecting, he looked very uncomfortable. “Um…I’m actually kind of interested in this other girl.” I took a second before recovering like a champ. “Oh, dude. Man. Bro-stest with the most-est. That is totally cool.” I think I tried to man it up in an effort to suddenly align myself as a guy friend as opposed to a potential girlfriend. I stopped just short of “Is she hot?” After two minutes of absolutely excruciating watch-a-puppy-get-tortured small talk in which I masculinized myself to the point of nearly growing testicles, he skated away like the coolest kid around. I watched him go, wanting to die of embarrassment in between thoughts of “FUCK FEMINISM. FUCK SADIE HAWKINS. FUCK BOYS WHO STILL OWN SKATEBOARDS IN COLLEGE.” Unfortunately, I still had four months of class with him and a group project to finish. I managed to make it through each of our awkward encounters, acting as if it was no big deal at all (although when he accidentally fell out of his chair one class I laughed really hard and really loud. I like to believe it was my own twisted form of vengeance). In the end, I learned that if you’re not sure the person you’re asking out will say yes, do not go elaborate. That Google Search Story was the goddamn most adorable thing I had ever done, and it went to waste on someone who didn’t like me back.

P.S. I’m sorry for cursing your name, Sadie Hawkins. You seem like a really cool person.
P.P.S. Upon a quick Google search, Sadie Hawkins was not actually a real-life progressive woman and God is dead.

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I Thought I Lost My Virginity Three Weeks Before I Actually Did

By the time I got to college, I was super ready to lose my virginity. I’m not saying I was getting drunk and passing by the frats propositioning myself. Mostly because I can’t drink alcohol without getting nauseas and I don’t own any sexy clothes. Otherwise I totally would have. Basically, I was sick of being a virgin and fake laughing at sex jokes because I had no idea what they were referring to. (My mom would make us do this thing where if we laughed at a sex joke she would demand, “Explain it to me” to see if we really understood the joke. I could never explain it).

So, when I started dating a couple months into freshman year, I was hormonal, horny, and ready to lose it. While the stereotype may be that guys have sex on the brain and girls are coy, I had the opposite experience. My boyfriend (we’ll call him Todd. Todd seems like a nice name) had never had sex before either, but his religious background gave him all that good ol’ fashioned Christian guilt. Since I grew up with absolutely zero religious guidance, I was like, “C’mon, let’s do this thing.” (This post just inadvertently became fuel for the argument of bringing your kids to church). At one point during a make-out/dry hump/awkward rubbing session, my hand started to take things to the next level when Todd stopped me. He looked right into my eyes and asked, “Wait. Do you love me?” In this moment, I knew my answer would dictate what would happen next, so… I lied. I looked right into his eyes and said, “Of course I love you”, and the next thing you know I’m down to my underwear. And that’s how I first said “I love you.” To get into someone’s pants. Yes, I know I’m terrible. I was taking advantage of poor Todd and didn’t stop to think about the consequences. Well, his consequences. I was perfectly fine with my sexual choices, but Todd was apparently experiencing moral crises almost nightly. Hell’s gonna be great, you guys.

A couple months later we finally did the deed. Or I thought we did. I really wasn’t sure. We were both naked. And our, you know, private parts were touching and definitely moving against each other. It was like watching two dogs meet at a park, running in circles and sniffing each other’s butts and all that jazz. You’re probably laughing at my ignorance of what sex should be, but how the hell was I supposed to know what it should feel like?! Neither of us had done it before and porn can only teach so much. So we did this non-penetration thing for a couple weeks, and neither of us really talked about it but there was definitely a sense that something wasn’t quite right. And then, totally by accident, it happened. And I instantly knew. Because that shit hurt. (This is coming from the girl who cried the first time she put a tampon in). I guess the rest is history. Weirdly, I don’t regret anything. There’s a lot of talk about “saving yourself for the right person”, and sure, that may work for some people, but I just wanted to do it. And, for better or worse (definitely worse, in Todd’s case), I got what I wanted. I’m going to be a horrible mother. But at least I understand sex jokes now!

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I Experienced the Worst-Case-Scenario Blowjob

I was giving my (non-current) boyfriend a blowjob. The facts are these: I have a very sensitive gag reflex (not as bad as my sister who will gag violently if she sees a sock close to someone’s mouth because she can’t stop thinking about the feeling of sock material on teeth). I also hate blowjobs (well, who really loves giving blowjobs). Specifically, I hate the feeling of something blocking my esophagus, I hate the weird noises that make me sound like a mentally challenged vacuum, and I hate the saliva. All the saliva. But, if I’m really into a guy, I like doing stuff for him and blowjobs seem to do the trick. This particular night, I think I was trying to get my boyfriend to do something and therefore precedented it with a blowjob to persuade him in my direction (this is how feminism works, right?).

So we’re on the bed, I’m giving him a blowjob, and everything is going as fine and dandy as it can be while a dick’s in your mouth. He’s getting super into it because apparently the world turns into butterflies and unicorns and rainbows when your private parts are in someone’s mouth, when, all of sudden…he peed a little. In my mouth. The place where I eat things and home to all my precious taste buds. I jumped backwards and, in my surprise, I swallowed. I swallowed the pee. It took a half-second to process what had happened before the intense gagging began. I shit you not, I’m gagging thinking about it right now. In that moment, my brain zeroed in on one thought and wouldn’t let it go: JESUS CHRIST I just swallowed pee. I ingested someone else’s urine. Ex-Boyfriend is all like, “What?! What happened?” because apparently guys can’t tell when they pee in a girl’s mouth?! In ideal Carly world, this is what I would’ve said: “Holy shit, you just peed in my mouth! Go get me a toothbrush, toothpaste, gallons of mouthwash, and you owe me a month straight of going down on me while simultaneously massaging my feet.” In real Carly world, this is what I did: *gags vehemently* “Oh, sorry, it’s nothing. I just need to get some water.” If you hate me by this point, I don’t blame you. I hate me too. I just really didn’t want to embarrass him. I mean, I didn’t know if we could come back from that. That’s like, a dealbreaker for sure.

I jumped out of bed and drank all the water I could, taking breaks only to alternate between breathing and gagging. When I returned, a changed person, he stared at me. “So…” He was lying on my bed naked, implying the obvious. And then I finished the job I started because I’m not a quitter. Well, at least I’m now confident that if I were ever stranded without water, I could drink my own pee and not die.

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I Drooled On My Boyfriend

I was totally into my first boyfriend. Like, so into him I almost liked him as much as I like binge-watching TV while eating chocolate. Yeah, I may have been in love with him. How could I not be? He introduced me to the world of making out on couches, dry humping, and comic books, so basically he had it all. On one occasion, we were making out on the couch (it was a typical Tuesday night), and we switched so I was on top. All our clothes were on, or most of them were, or at least my underwear, and my brain was practically exploding. My tongue moved around his mouth like it was working overtime and my awkward, lumpy body humped like a dog with a new stuffed animal. It was not pretty a sight. Thank god it was too dark to clearly see anything.

I resurfaced to take a breath when the worst thing that could happen to a girl happened: I drooled on him. I could feel the string of spit leaving my mouth as if in slow-motion and a rush of thoughts went through my mind that essentially can be added up to: NooooooooooooI’mdisgustingNoooooooooooo! It only took the one second my mouth was open for a breath of air for my drool to shoot out like that dinosaur that ate Newman in Jurassic Park. Ugh, I was exactly like my dog when he wakes me up in the morning. Or I guess exactly like my dog when he dry humps.

Before I could will my drool to suck back up into my mouth like an alien invasion, my boyfriend jumped. “What was that?” It was too dark for him to see, which meant I had a plethora of lies to choose from to make me appear more ladylike. Although the more I thought about it, I really could only pick between “There’s a leak in the ceiling” or “It was my sweat”, which really wasn’t ladylike at all. In the end, I just kind of froze until he figured out what happened. Finally, he said, “Don’t worry, I would’ve done the same thing” which is a really sweet thing to say. Clearly he was a good liar since we broke up two weeks later; I don’t blame him. That was fucking disgusting.

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