I’ve always been somewhat proud of this ridiculously one-paragraph’d rant that was posted on June 11th, 2004:
I’m annoyed about panty liners, people. While rummaging through my collection of feminine hygiene products, I happened upon a box of black panty liners. I remember buying these; even though they were more expensive than the handily compact ones and came 32 to a box instead of 36, my inner goth gave a rousing “meh” of delight at the thought of panty liners as black as the midnight of my soul. It seemed like a truly excellent idea at the time, but now when my womb is shedding its lining that had been prepared for the fertilized egg it will never receive, I am annoyed. Black panty liners suck. It’s not enough for me to know I am being vaguely protected ‘down there’, I need to see the evidence of the flower of my womanhood. Nothing shows up on a black absorbent surface — I could be bleeding out mango chutney or Ovaltine and I wouldn’t know. I am inconvenienced monthly because I listened to my inner goth, and I’m not happy about it. Not only that, but in order to dazzle you with packaging so you can marvel at how far vaginal technology has come, the box is designed to carry the liners at their full length to maximize the impact. This means they’re not individually wrapped, making them awkward and unhygienic to carry, and they don’t fit neatly into my Vinnie’s Mini Tampon Case. Everything about the black panty liners piss me off. I am pissed off at the difficulties they add to my menstrual cycle. Just who do they think they are, throwing a wrench into places there best be no wrench at all? And don’t even get me started on the OTHER kinds of stupid panty liners — while I personally wouldn’t think to ever wear a thong while leaking out my hoo-haw, there are those who do and thong-shaped liners must seem like a good idea to them. A few years back, companies were putting patents out for panty liners that were soaked with chemicals to help you better understand your menstrual cycle. Good lord! Where has this stuff been since the dawn of time? I don’t know how our foremothers were able to live without a handy colour-changing rag between their legs to tell them they’re about to ovulate so they could conceive their 9th child. These new fangled liners were to come with colour coded charts — purple on gold means you’re ovulating, red means it’s a little too late to be wondering when your period is going to start, blue means you’ve got the clap and pink indicates that the stars are in alignment on the cusp of Capricorn so today would be a good day to ask that hunky office dreamboat out for coffee and “dessert”. WHY is it a good idea to drape my most delicate bits in chemicals? Who thinks of this stuff? My vagina is JUST FINE without help from your caustic concoctions. It does not need to be deodorized or disinfected or moisturized daily to avoid unsightly wrinkles. It does not need designer products once a month to help me forget the embarrassment of being a woman. I do not need a spray to mask my womanly odors. I don’t need “special sized” protection for my fat girl cunt, and nobody needs you to entice an entire generation of young girls into paranoia that they vagina is too big or too small for your products which, while we’re on the subject, are ridiculously expensive for something we have no choice over. I’m a woman. I bleed out my vagina for 2-5 days a month, and you’re making MONEY off my natural cycles. You’re trying to introduce new and excitingly colourful ways to tell me if I’m a cheating whore who’s knocked up and riddled with STDs and just to add insult to injury, you’re dropping subtle hints that I stink and should cover up in case someone can tell that I’m on the rag. OH, and you’re making tampons with “silent” wrappers, too, so no one can hear us in the bathroom because other women would be MORTIFIED to learn that ANOTHER WOMAN is HAVING HER PERIOD in a PUBLIC PLACE when we should obviously be at home bedridden until our womanly cycles are through. It’s punishment, you see, for BEING WOMEN. Well, here’s a hearty FUCK YOU from me and my vagina and all the fun that comes with and from it, including the oh-so humiliating fluid from my uterus and the only organ on the human body specifically designed just for pleasure and any and all scents that might come from this flowering, bleeding, leaking proof that I have a fabulous set of the XX running wild through my body like Godzilla on the streets of Tokyo.