It was the second day of my period and the middle of midterm week. What could have possibly gone wrong? 

Everything. That’s what could have gone wrong.

After hours of studying and dealing with those cramps that feel like someone took a knife and shoved it right up your ass (no because literally what are those called?), I decided to complete a new mission: buy out the South Campus Dominoes in an ambitious attempt to put myself in a food coma. They couldn’t make me take a 9 A.M. midterm if I wasn’t conscious. 

And so my Odyssey began: I was held captive by Calypso (my friends) on her island (Fenway), the Cyclops (an aggressive goose) attempted to cut my journey short by threatening to make me its dinner (flying at my head while I ordered on the GrubHub app), and Poseidon (road rage-filled drivers) tried to drown (hit) me at sea (Beacon Street). 

Finally, after ten years (like 15 minutes) of treacherous travel, I finally made it to Ithaca (South Campus Dominoes). Call me Odysseus, bitch.

I assumed my troubles were over, what else could have been in store for me after such a perilous journey? 

But then my stomach started churning, and I could feel my uterus begin to tremble. My palms were sweaty, my knees weak, and my arms were heavy. Never before had I related to an opening line, or any line, of an Eminem song more. Marshall Mathers in his relatable era? Slay.

I realized, to my dismay, that I had been raw dogging my menstruation for about two hours; I forgot to take some more painkillers before I left. I also needed to use the bathroom—badly. Like real bad. Like I could’ve gotten the South Campus Dominoes shut down by the health department kind of bad. But there was no time to turn back, as the little TV they have on the wall said my food was being prepared (I was number 69. Nice). I looked to my left, and I saw my saving grace. The bathroom.

To spare you (most of) the details, I put up a valiant fight in the South Campus Dominoes bathroom. In those trying moments, I realized I wasn’t Odysseus—oh no. I was more like Joan of Arc, or Captain Marvel, or Margaret Thatcher if she wasn’t one of the most horrendously vile people to walk the Earth. I was girlbossing my way through period shits.

The story ends with me gracefully washing my hands in a girlboss way, picking up my food in a girlboss way, and walking back to my study session in a girlboss way. The Beacon Street drivers and the previously hostile geese knew not to fuck with me: I was the final boss of the girlbosses. 

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