One of my absolute worst (realistic) fears came true today. Except.. it happened to someone else.

There I was sitting in class, finishing up my stat exam, when a girl sitting on the far left of the room cries out something to the instructor. At first I think she's asking a question, but then she repeats it and it sounds something like, "I'mgonnapsshdhoof". "What?" asks the instructor. "I'm GONNA PASS OUT." He rushes over to her side, and I assume that he asks her what's going on, because the next thing I hear is: "I have really bad cramps".

WHAT? NO WAY. It can't be. Can it?

The class grinds to a dead halt and everyone stops to gape at the commotion. The instructor calls the campus paramedic team, then they call the ambulance and stay there to wait with her. And yes, this is all happening inside of the classroom. By this time, I'm totally finished with my exam.. and I'm debating whether to be mature and leave, or be a prick and stay to catch the action. Obviously, I stay.

Soooo... I'm sitting there like the queen of douches, pretending to go over my answers while the paramedics ask her a laundry list of questions. At this point, she is laid flat out on the ground next to the desks, struggling to stay conscious. What's wrong?, they ask. Cramps, she says. On a scale of 1-10, how bad is the pain? Nine, she says. Are you on any meds? Midol. What?, they ask again. MIDOL, she's forced to repeat loudly.

HOLY SHITBALLS. How. Fackin'. Mortifying. And yes, in case you're wondering, this is indeed (at least part of) my fear. Being struck by an agonizing, soul-crushing, mind-numbing bout of abdominal torture otherwise known as "period pain" completely out of left field and doubling over, being reduced to a puddle of tears, or passing out in middle of class (or any public venue), rendered totally helpless. Not to mention being publicly humiliated in the process. The second half of this fear involves getting a wicked case of the runs in public, which has actually already happened countless times -- in class, at clubs, while driving, at amusement parks, in DC gridlock en route to a fucking stage musical I paid $95 for (another story for another day) -- so.. I guess at this point it no longer constitutes as a "phobia"- it's just my sad, sad reality.

*By the way, I didn't stay to gawk at her in some voyeuristic, sadistic, entertainment-seeking way. I stayed to gawk because I was absolutely fixated on the manifestation of my personal nightmare coming to life before my very eyes.*

But I digress! By now I'm thinking... okay, I've milked this for way too long. I turn in my test, then, while in the bathroom, realize that I have a full bottle of Motrin IB in my backpack. (Ladies, as an aside: MOTRIN IB is the ultimate destroyer, obliterator, and annihilator of menstrual pain. It is 200 mg of ass-kicking voodoo. It pwnzers Advil, Excedrin, Tylenol, even Midol! Yes, I have tried all of those. And yes, it gets bad enough sometimes that I feel like ripping a phone book in half. Gentlemen: if you're wondering what all the fuss is about, try imagining being mauled by a hemmorhoidal lion on crystal meth. Now imagine surviving and repeating it on a monthly basis).

Anyway, I immediately trot back to the classroom and try to offer some to the poor girl, but apparently no one is allowed to administer any medication. But, hey.. at least I tried. So I'm not a total asshat. Right? Right. And no, I did not make that last part up and toss it in in a clumsy attempt to salvage some remaining semblance of decency. Really!... *bats eyelashes*.

*Dear God/Krishna/Mana/FlyingSpaghettiMonster: Please please PLEASE save me from this terrible fate. I will sacrifice a million chickens, goats, or virgins for you. I have no objection to this because I won't be among any of them, .*

Aw, nuts. My subscribers list has seemingly doubled in the past few days. I hate it when this happens! Too. Much. Pressure. Makes me feel like I'm trapped in a swarm of anonymous faces encircling me, throwing coins and screaming "Dance, Monkey. DANCE!" Not pleasant. Besides, if you really want a dance it should be crumpled dollars, not coins, and they should be delicately tucked between my ass checks with your teeth, not gauchely chucked my way.

But seriously - just so you know, I suck. I do. My entries typically consist of cute pictures of babies and puppies, a catalog of things I bought that day and designer items I wish to buy in the future, bitching and moaning about guys, and a tedious account of my day (ex: Woke up, ate breakfast (90 calories!), bought Starbucks, saw totally cute shoes, grabbed dinner with sister, sleep now. Bye guys! Will update you again tomorrow). Occasionally, I'll throw in a few tortured, emo poems and suggestive pictures of myself in various stages of undress (that have nothing to do with the topic, btw) to break up the monotony... but mostly to add to the cyber-shrine I'm building to myself. No one wants to read that kind of stuff, right?

*sub lists doubles again, then triples, then Xanga blows up*

... Aw, NUTS. Well, here goes nothin':