Bloody hell

Yet more Oversharing is imminent. Squeamish? You might want to run off and look at outrageously expensive but undeniably gorgeous photos of adorable babies, instead, today. (I told Krispy, "Those pictures made my uterus send up a flare!" which she claimed was patriotically appropriate, with the pending Fourth.)

Anyway. So today, while I was sitting at my desk, my back itched...just in that spot you can barely get at. So, contorting myself appropriately, I scratched it. I could feel a little teeny bump, mole or mosquito bite or blemish, dunno. It didn't hurt...but my fingers came away wet. With blood. Eeek.

I squirmed around, trying to figure out what exactly I'd done, and...it continued to bleed. And bleed. The hell? I finally slunk into the restroom and stuffed a folded wad of t.p. under my bra strap, struggling to align it with the steadily bleeding, miniscule spot I still couldn't...quite...reach. Having stuffed the entirely wrong part of the bra, so to speak, I went back to my desk.

Where after about twenty minutes, I noticed that the t.p. felt clammy.

Because it was SATURATED WITH BLOOD.

I obviously have no dignity left in my life, people. I mean, yesterday I went back to the doctor for MORE examination of my complexion woes, for which I now have two ointments, one of which, the pharmacist announced to the room at large, I must SWAB IN MY NOSTRILS with a Q-Tip. And TODAY, I had to go to one of the female managers, and hike up my shirt, so that she could put a band-aid on my apparent mystery SHRAPNEL WOUND in this place I could neither see or reach.

It soaked through in half an hour.

I IMed Darcy in a bit of a state. "You have got to help me," I said (she works in a different building). Mercifully, NerdCo has incredibly well-stocked First Aid cabinets, with antiseptic wipes and ointments and gauze squares; I was afraid I'd have to tape a maxipad to my shoulder. As it was, I simply had to DISROBE huddled in Darcy's office, holding the blinds and the door shut and holding my bra on and praying that no one would actually come by to DO SOME WORK FOR GOD'S SAKE while poor, dear Nurse Darcy mopped up the inexplicable HORROR MOVIE on my back and plastered me with bandages. I am sure I will have the adhesive remnants of a square outline on my skin for the rest of the summer...but we seemed to get it stopped. What the hell did I do, anyway? Scratch off a mole by accident? Spring a leak? Develop some sort of breakfast-donut-induced hemophilia instantaneously?

"That is so weird," Darcy said. "It's tiny. It looks like this." She drew a wee dot on a sheet of paper.

Just another fun day at the office: deadlines, annual reviews, and two different people seeing me IN MY BLOODY BRA. My genuinely bloody bra! STREAKED AND STAINED WITH GORE! It looks like it belongs to a knife-fightin' whore, people.

Stay tuned for tomorrow, when that nightmare I have where all my teeth fall out PROBABLY COMES TRUE.