The following was taken from my blog on November 25, 2009.

From Wikipedia:
A nosebleed, or epistaxis as it is known in the medical field, is the relatively common occurrence of hemorrhage from the nose, usually noticed when the blood drains out through the nostrils, often caused by low relative humidity of inhaled air.

So we’re actually having hemorrhoids? Through our nose? Gross.

Anyway, I was lucky enough to have a nose hemorrhoid during class. When it comes to these little unfortunate events there are two groups of people. The first group never get nosebleeds, and, when they do, hardly need more than a tissue to plug it up. The second group have, in most cases, the nasal equivalent of a rogue fire hose, requiring no less than the sheet off a queen-sized bed to stop the flow. I hail from the latter of the two.

So I’m taking notes in my computer science class when I get that runny nose feeling, you know, the kind where you use your sleeve and forget about it. When the problem persists, I lift my arm again, only to find that my sleeve is bright red. Great. Block up the dams men, the worst is yet to come.

Trying to act discreet about the situation seeing that I was in the middle of a crowded lecture hall, I roll up my sleeves and put my hand over my face, acting as if I was in deep thought, concealing my best to hide the fact that I was plugging up a now faucet-like flow of blood with my fingertip. I look around the room for something to wipe my nose on–nothing. The only utilities in the standard lecture hall are a pencil sharpener and a stapler, neither of which could help with my current situation.

When I start gagging from lack of oxygen in the windpipe, I cup my hands and cover my face. Instantly a puddle of blood around a centimeter deep forms in my hands. I concentrate on the lecture, hoping the nosebleed would eventually stop and I could somehow get back to work.

Two centimeters deep and counting. I try to take notes on my laptop with my elbows but to no avail. Instead I work on planning an escape route through the mass of people in case things get too out of hand.

Three centimeters. Heads turn as the nosebleed becomes more and more obvious, and blood starts leaking out of my hands onto my desk and pants. I have never leaked this much blood before at once since the road grater accident. But I will not let this nosebleed get the best of me. I remain attentive.

Four centimeters and trails of blood down my arms. Dizziness sets in. I am no longer paying attention to the lecture, or anything for that matter. Screw being civil or sanitary. I have to get out of here.

With my hands overflowing with a five-centimeter-deep pool of blood in my hands and my shirt and crotch area soaked, I bolt from my seat and make a beeline for the door, knocking over backpacks and chairs on the way. I sprint down the hallway toward the men’s room leaving a trail of blood on the floor like some kind of wounded animal. When I am close enough to see the ever-welcoming blue sign on the wall leading to the restroom, I feel a twitching in my nose. Realizing with horror what is about to happen, I lounge through a crowd of people like a battering ram and hurl myself into the door, spraying blood everywhere as I go. And as I stumble my way past the threshold into the bathroom, it happens.

AH…AHHHH…..AHCHOOOO!!

I don’t know if you’ve ever had the displeasure of sneezing with a nosebleed, but I can assure you it’s about as devastating as sticking a firecracker into a can of red paint. In the dizzy confusion, my cupped hands leave my face and I unleash a class five load of nasal dysentery all over the restroom. I’m not exaggerating either–there is not a single wall that was not stained in red by the time I make it into a stall and empty at least a gallon of blood into the toilet bowl.

Five minutes later, with the monster nosebleed finished, and the toilet–now a deep shade of crimson–clogged with an entire industrial-sized roll of toilet paper, I step back and survey the damage. It’s pretty bad; it almost looks like a herd of small animals came into the room and exploded. Blood and mucus cover the walls and floor, red hand prints deface the stalls and, looking into the blood-stained mirror on the opposite side of the room, I realize that I am a disgrace: my BLACK shirt has been stained red as well as my jeans and shoes, my brown stubble is now a red stubble, and my hair, previously un-gelled, now forms a trendy peak on my forehead. As I am contemplating this, some guy, eager to use the restroom, comes in the door. It’d be nice if I could accurately describe his facial expression when he saw me, but I’ll leave it up to your imagination.

Him: “Dude, holy SHIT! Are you okay?”
Me: “What? …Oh! Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that time of the month. You know.”

I spend an extra twenty minutes cleaning up what I can of the bathroom and my clothes, hoping that a janitor will come by and get the rest. When at long last I am vaguely satisfied with my appearance, I follow the trail of blood back to the lecture hall and sit down. I give a confident glance to my classmates, as if nothing ever happened.

In the future, I’m bringing some cotton balls to put in my nose for if this ever happens again. I hope you’re wise enough to follow my example and do the same.

Either that, or go straight to the bathroom as soon as it happens like any normal person.