When people talk about me, I imagine it usually goes something like this: “You know that Rachel girl? The one with almost 3,000 followers on Instagram who never shamelessly promotes her own social media? The total dime who is almost as beautiful as she is modest? Yeah. That girl is pretty cool and mysterious.”
And these imaginary people having these imaginary conversations are pretty damn right. I’m not one to talk in explicit graphic detail about personal matters and I tend to get embarrassed easily about the few less-than-lady-like stories I tell. But now? Now I need to take a break from being classy because something just happened to me. Something horrible. Something terrible. Something life-changing. And if I can do one thing, just one thing in my entire life, it would be to stop unsuspecting people (like myself) from ruining their own lives like I did mine.
I just accidentally cut my own vagina. And I will never, ever be the same.
It started out as just another normal bathroom visit. I walked down the hallway to get to the restroom, my head deep in my iPhone so I could avoid eye contact with people as they passed me. I pushed open the door and let out a sign of relief. Empty. Nothing better than an empty bathroom for a few minutes of Monday solitude. I made a bee-line for the handicapped stall (disclaimer: I would not take this if there was a person in a wheelchair or something. But in the nature of honesty and baring my soul I must say — I prefer the big stall 9/10 times).
I closed the door behind me and tucked my phone into my sports bra (pro tip: I do this instead of putting it in any pockets because one too many phones have already been lost due to swimming in the toilet), and settled in for a much-needed pee. Things were going great. It was one of those pees that makes me wonder if peeing is better than sex. Just as I was thinking about whether or not I wanted a Diet Coke at 10 a.m. the door opened and an unknown person settled into the stall next to me.
I hesitated, slightly upset by my tranquil, almost-perfect bathroom experience being interrupted, but I figured whatever. My time was almost up and someone else should enjoy this Monday morning bliss. And then? She starts doing the one thing you should never do in the bathroom during business hours.
She started going to the bathroom. You know. Like, going.
In her defense, she was courtesy flushing like it was her job — and I have mad respect for that move. If you helped yourself to a little too much post-Sunday Funday Taco Bell, the least you can do is flush every five seconds the next morning. In my shocked state, however, my mind went blank and I decided that I needed to flee. The only problem? I forgot the most crucial detail of my current life:
I was growing my nails out.
So as I wadded up more than my fair share of TP and started going to town, I immediately felt a sharp slicing pain. I looked down to see blood all over the toilet paper.
What the fuck? I thought, as I tossed the paper and grabbed some more. Was I on my period? No. I just cried all last week at Subaru commercials so that time definitely passed. Was I miscarrying? Highly unlike but I wasn’t ruling it out yet. Was I dying? Maybe. As I wadded up yet another excessive amount of paper, I saw it: underneath my too-long middle nail was blood. Dawning fell on me as pain seared my lady clam: I had sliced open my own vagina with my slutty nails.
Tears pricked my eyes as panic set it. What do I do? The other stall occupant kept flushing, and the sound was only stressing me out more. Paper after paper I held to my wound, only to be rewarded with bright red coloring. I knew that I needed to escape to look up WebMD and figure out how long, exactly, I had before my vagina fell off. I quickly pulled up my yoga pants and waddled back to my office in shock.
The pain stung with every step, and I tried to hide my tears as I typed “I cut my own vagina with my finger nail” into my phone.
The good news? I don’t think I’ll die from this. Vaginas, while confusing and mystical, are pretty much “self-cleaning” (gag), so I don’t need to visit a gyno to get some type of medicating cream. The downside? “You’ll wish you did die whenever you try to pee,” I read, as I started to feel better about my current state. How bad could it be, though? I thought, as I stupidly sucked down ounce after ounce of quality H20.
How bad? It’s bad. Worse than bad. It’s hell. As I sat in the same stall that ruined my life, my breathing hitched as the thing that once caused me so much happiness (peeing) was causing me so much pain. It’s like I was breaking up with going to the bathroom — and the heartbreak was worse than anything I could have prepared for. As I waddled back to my desk yet again and dumped out my bottle filled with lemon berry water (fuck hydrating) the realization of what my life would be like for the new few days hit me:
No longer would I enjoy the moments of happiness of going to the bathroom when you really have to go. No longer would I be able to wipe with abandon or let my mind wander as I used the facilities. Sex was out. Which meant *sob* blowjobs might be in. Exercising was definitely out, which is a shame because I went to a gym once in 2011 and I was considering maybe going to one again. Not only would I have to brace myself for pain and sadness every time I go to the bathroom, but the long nails I spent weeks growing out are currently being cut down as I type.
In short, life as I know it is over.
I’m glad this happened to me, only so that I could warn you. So, unsuspecting female who thinks drinking detox water and peeing every hour is all fun and games — stop. Take a good, hard, honest look at your nails and think: are these nails slutty and ~dangrous~ enough to cause me physical harm? If so, file those bitches down and thank me later. Sometimes the hardest choices you have to make are the ones that cut a relationship, and a manicure, short.
RIP vagina. It’s been fun..
Image via Shutterstock