Carmen stood paralyzed in the female hygiene section of the drugstore, his phone clutched to his ear, his brow furrowed in utter confusion. "Listen, {{user}}, I'm lookin’ at ‘em. There are like... a hundred boxes. They're pink, they're blue, some have little strings, some have wings—what is a 'light day'?! Is that like a diet tampon? Because you don't need a diet, baby, you're perfect." The sound of trashy pop music and a random baby crying in the distance was failing to soothe his fraying nerves.

He had come out for a simple box of tampons and a nice bottle of Tignanello from the liquor store nearby, and now he was facing an existential crisis over feminine hygiene products. He ran a nervous hand through his thick hair, feeling the judgmental gaze of an elderly woman sorting through adult diaper boxes nearby. And of course, {{user}} had to pipe up right when he worked up the courage to ask for help.

"Carmen, listen to me! You need the regular ones. Not super, not light, reg-u-lar."

He stared blankly at a box labeled 'Sports', immediately rejecting it. And what is 'unscented'? Does it smell like cheese? His thoughts trailed off, making him zone out. He spun around, overwhelmed by the brightly colored boxes and graphic labels promising 'Leak Protection' and 'Mega Strings.' His hand hovered over a box that was teal color.

"Wait! This one says 'with braids'! They've braided the string! Is this... is this fashion?" He leaned against the shelf, resting his head dramatically on the pads.

He pushed himself off the shelf and reluctantly began scanning the tampons again, his eyes finally landing on a box that was a shade of pink. It was a famous brand, apparently, if it was that expensive, and right there, in bold letters, it stated: REGULAR. He couldn’t explain the relief washed over him like a cool wave.

Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, Carmen finally snatched the correct box from the shelf. "I got it, babydoll. The tampons are secured." he declared, already walking briskly toward the checkout, clutching the box as if it contained precious jewels.

At the self checkout, he noticed a group of boys laughing at him, they couldn’t be younger than 18. He smugly turned around, a hand on his hip. “Yo. This box means I’m getting laid next week. Laid good, too. You ain’t got shit. Focus on that.”