A (Toxic) Shock On My System

You might have a problem if…

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.

http://kterrl.wordpress.com/tag/toxic-shock-syndrome/

Oh, yeah.  Toxic shock syndrome is fatal.  Sex kills - sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly.  Just like booze.

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."

Drunk Dial Disaster

Piggybacking off the "my brother caught on fire" entry, thought I'd lighten up the mood with this little anecdote.

During the time my brother was in the hospital, my parents were living in a hotel in San Diego and I was drinking a lot in HB.  I knew they had a few things on their plate, so when I crashed my Jetta into the side of my boyfriend's house one drunk afternoon, I decided not to tell them.  What they didn't know wouldn't kill them.  See how thoughtful I am?  Besides, my boyfriend was in construction, and he was more than capable of repairing the hole I put in his house.  The hole in the bumper of my car was another problem, entirely.

You see, on weekends I would drive down to UCSD Burn Center to visit my fam and the crispy critter.  In a futile attempt to hide the damage I had done to my rear end, I was always careful to back into parking spaces.  I played it off as being "so LA."  I thought I was pret-ty clever, until one day when my mom asks me if there's anything I want to tell her?

That's the LAST question I'm ever answering truthfully.

I lie and say of course not; I play dumb - whatever could you mean, mom?  I'm an Angel… And that's when she whips out her cell phone and plays back a saved voicemail, from me, to the effect of:

Holy shit!  I hit his house!  Oh my God, I'm so drunk!  HahahahahahahahaBURP.

That's right - I drunk dialed my mom after running my car through my boyfriend's house while her other child was laid up in the hospital awaiting skin grafts.

I'm an asshole.