Listen here, you little shit. I tried you for two cycles. And before you're like, BUT THAT'S NOT ENOUGH TIME, please note that two weeks of something very unpleasant is enough for me to make up my mind about hating something.
But I can't do this anymore, menstrual cup.
I wanted to like you. I really, really did. I looked at my receipt from Amazon and thought to myself, This is the last $30 I'll ever pay on feminine hygiene products ever again in my entire life. I'll be saving thousands of dollars over my lifetime. I was ready for a lifelong commitment to you. I loved how environmentally friendly you are and how, like a rotisserie chicken, I could "set it and forget it." In theory, I only had to dump you out every 12 hours: once when I woke up, and once at the end of the day.
But those are the key words here: "in theory." In reality, you do not live up to your hype.
Because here's the thing. Well, a few things.
You've leaked, you motherfucker. And I could never predict when you were going to do that because I followed the insertion directions to a T. I'd do the exact same insertion method (and I've tried the two recommended ways: the double fold AND the cone-like fold!), and you would sometimes leak, sometimes not. "Fold it up, rotate it a few times clockwise and counterclockwise, and you're all good!" I heard.
But no one told me how much of a bitch it is to rotate you. My vagina isn't big enough for a folded up silicone cup (which is bigger than a tampon) and the four fingers necessary to turn you. And this isn't some weird sort of brag where it's like, LOOK HOW SMALL MY VAGINA IS. Mine isn't all that small! But when I try to cram the cup up there with my fingers, it feels like one of those pictures of people trying to cram into public transportation in Japan.
My fingers are also not tiny enough for the fucking one square centimeter of surface area at the bottom of the cup you have to pinch in order to turn it. My fingers aren't the width of knitting needles. And as I struggle to twirl you, damn you, my fingernails are scraping against the walls of my vagina. You know what doesn't turn my vagina into a lost scene from Se7en? A smooth, sleek tampon. (Related: Whenever I hear "WHAT'S IN THE BOX?" now, I hope it's a Tampax Pearl.)
A folded up menstrual cup is bulky and lumpy. Shoving a folded up cup into my vagina was like shoving a shar-pei puppy who just swallowed two dollars' worth of pennies into my clam.
Here's another grievance I have: cleaning you.
I know, I know. Warm, soapy water. But, like, I'm not fond of something covered in bacteria that I have to reinsert over and over again. If something is gonna enter my meat castle over and over again, I want that thing to be boiled and then rinsed in bleach and then professionally dry-cleaned. I like how I can take a tampon and toss it — now covered in as much bacteria as a the aforementioned shar-pei puppy's mouth — in the trash.
My last bone to pick with you, motherfucker: removing you.
The string of a tampon is, like, eight feet. Why the fuck is your nubbin half a millimeter?! I have an easier time picking up sand with chopsticks than I do taking out a menstrual cup by its nub.
So I bid thee farewell, menstrual cup. I think I'm going to stick to tampons, pantyliners, and Reese's peanut butter cups: three things that make my period infinitely easier to handle.