Depending on how old you are, tampons are either your best friend or your worst nightmare.
At 14, I wouldn't dare look at my vagina, let alone sticksomething that frightening inside of it (cue dick jokes here). But now, at the ripe age of 21 going on 22, I'll shove one up there as far as my hand will let me go.
Hell, I don't even need the smooth, pearly kind -- cardboard will do just fine. Give me one made of burlap if you want to challenge me. I'm fearless.
This eight-year process of learning to love tampons didn't come without its setbacks, as every woman has had an experience with a tampon that made her question why she ever decided to make the permanent switch from pads in the first place (because we all know that once the switch is made, it's permanent).
For example, my biggest setback happened in college. I was sitting in my dorm room the morning after having hooked up with someone the night before when I realized I didn't know where the f*ck my tampon from yesterday was.
Panic infused the very depths of my soul, because either that motherf*cker was lodged way, way up in my goddamn uterus and threatening me with TSS, or it fell out and was patiently waiting to be discovered in that guy's bed and wreak havoc on his life. I didn't know which option was worse.
Immediately, I screamed for my roommate, who was pre-med and therefore way more equipped to handle medical crises than I was, and hurried to the bathroom.
Then, as thoughts of blood-soaked wads of cotton strewn across my crush's lightly-colored sheets plagued my greatest, wildest, most unimaginable fears, I pried open my vagina and searched for the light -- but, to my utter, utter dismay, to no avail.
In a fit of hysteria, I Ubered to the hospital, figuring a hospital visit was a less humiliating way to determine the tampon's whereabouts than a "Hey, have you seen something that vaguely resembles a dead rabbit foot in your bed? Lmk." text.
In the exam room, a doctor propped my legs up on stirrups, did some excavating with tools that looked like pliers from a funhouse, and came to the conclusion that, yes, that tampon was indeed lodged inside my uterus, and I would have never been able to get it out on my own because of how deeply it had plunged and how tightly the string had wrapped itself around the cotton.
It was traumatizing. I was traumatized. To be honest, I still am. And so is my dad probably, because he was billed $900 for the ordeal.
But I beat on, a boat against the current. As did everyone else below, who also have horrifying tampon experiences.
Maybe she should pull out her nature sounds CD next time.
Motion to continue calling tampons "death sticks."
No, it was definitely a mouse.
Because anything having to do with a vagina equals pregnancy.
There's nothing scarier than peeing.
This is something out of a Judy Blume novel.
Yes, there's more than one hole down there.
This is one of the few times she'll spread her legs for her health.
Everyone could use a little feminism.
She hasn't been the same since.
This is every woman's worst nightmare.
At least she didn't drunk-eat a whole pizza.
Sure, she might feel betrayed, but at least she's not dead.
Once you go Tampax Pearl, you never go back.
Mother knows best.
All the cool kids were doing it.
How did she swim with that thing?
If you thought only babies wore diapers, you were wrong.