Nothing stands in your way of a good time. And by "nothing" I mean tampons, and your idea of a good time is sex. And your name is Kristyn.
The details of the evening in question are inconsequential. All you need know is I was under the (natural) impression that not being able to locate said clotting device the next morning meant I had remembered to remove it before play time, and had disposed of it.
Turns out the exact opposite had occurred, and essentially I'd been hammering a nail into my coffin.
Eleven days later, I'm layed up in the hospital with a series of tubes and IV's running through me; kickin' it on a goddamn gurney that had a built in scale - my ultimate nightmare. ANYONE could freely access my weight at any given time.
A series of things happened over the course of the three days I was incapacitated:
1) My brother graduated from college. Which I missed. Because I was recovering from toxic shock syndrome. Can't get that moment back.
2) My ENTIRE family was in town! (For my brother's graduation.) So I had LOTS of visitors. Who "knew" what happened to me. I'm a whore.
2a) Know who didn't visit? My boyfriend.
3) It was the first time I was informed by a medical professional that I might, in fact, have a drinking problem.
To which I responded: "Man, I need a fucking drink."