The tampons originally came from a fancy resort where my parents were doing a puppet show. If you're a performer, the resort doesn't pay that well in dollars, but it does pay pretty well in time at the resort. You get treated just like a paying guest, so when you fill one of their kayaks with blackberries and then eat the whole kayak, you may get a bit of side-eye from the management, but they certainly don't stop you.
Only this time I didn't get treated exactly like all the other guests. I wanted to go to this arm workout class because sometimes I feel bad about having a set of flaccid noodles instead of arms, but the guard lady turned me away at the door.
“Only paying guests,” she said.
And the tiny, spiteful, noodle-armed demon in my head threw a tantrum. “You said we'd get treated just like paying guests! YOU SAID!”
I managed to quash all external signs of my demon-tantrum in front of the guard, but 11.6 seconds later I discovered that every single bathroom in the resort was equipped with a miniature treasure box full of tampons.
In the third bathroom I visited, an old lady caught me scooping double fistfulls of tampons from the treasure box.
She fixed me with a withering glare.
I stared her right back, all aglow with righteousness.
“It's for justice,” I said.
Oddly, her expression didn't change much after that. I don't think she got it. But Hitler used to be legal in the past so I guess I shouldn't expect old people to understand justice.
Hm. Reading about the situation now, it seems entirely possible that I've been using spite tampons for the last several months instead of justice tampons. Oh well. I'm more than a quarter century old. You can't expect me to understand justice.