"Of all that is written, I love only what a person hath written in his blood"-Thus Spake Zarathustra
I woke up this morning with blood on my hands. Literally. A Lady MacBeth scenario. Except it wasn't just on my hands. I looked like I had been murdered in bed, but it hadn't caught up with my consciousness yet.

Nine years ago. I almost died by bleeding out my crotch. Not a very dignified way to go. My gynecologist at the time didn't believe I wasn't pregnant.

"Are you sure?"

"Look, Larry, I haven't even had a date in a year and half. I spend all my time in fucking gay bars drinking cosmopolitians. Unless I am THE most unlikely second act to the virgin mary or there are elves with turkey basters living in my room, REALLY not pregnant."

So he did a pregnancy test.

"Huh, you're not pregnant."

"Imagine that."
Yet I continued to bleed for another three weeks, making five in total. I woke up that morning covered in blood. My mother was on the phone to the hospital before I even got out of bed.

Larry stood next to me explaining everything that could go wrong. I had already been given a sedative to calm me before surgery. How many surgeries ago was that? He asked me if I accepted the risks. "Shouldn't you have asked me this BEFORE you gave me the sedative?" He blinked. Of course I accepted. It's a little more respectable to die in surgery than to exsanginate out of your vagina. Looks better on the death certificate.

My grandmother had a strange theory about the bleeding, that it was my depression made physical, that the blood from my broken heart was trickling around my liver and stomach-filtering through the cracks by the kidneys, and flowing out of my cunt.

And she worked in a ob/gyns office for 20 years.

Yesterday I found out I didn't get into Columbia. Today I wake up alone covered in blood.

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