The engine roars as I enter the very last vacant parking spot. Like, why is it so busy at this time of day? Shouldn’t people be having lunch, instead of shopping for lunch? Of course, the only people shopping now are desperate for some social interaction, creating a line all the way to Uzbekistan when checking out. Or, you know, annoying office workers coming in for one of those yucky pre-packaged, stocked with preservatives, sandwiches. I never understand why these eternal sandwiches are such a big deal.
“Ma’am, you can’t park there!” I hear when I slam the door. I see the disabled parking sign, as a slur of forbidden vocabulary, which would make my grandfather turn in his grave, nearly bursts from my tightly pressed lips. Then, I slowly turn around, lifting an eyebrow, to face the privileged middle-aged man pointing his chubby index finger at the sign. I blink repetitively. An ear-to-ear smile appears on my sweaty red face, while a nagging pain, pulsates through my groins.
“I am so sorry to trouble you sir, I will be gone in a minute”. I cannot believe my overly sweet as red cherry pie, high pitched voice.
I walk away, but hear: “We’ll see about that, missy”.
You can probably understand that this missy must turn around again. My smile vanishes like snow in the sun, as I take a deep breath. I walk back and stop in front of his pointy beer belly. Gosh, he’s actually pretty big.
“If you want, you can assist me to the ladies’ room”. I lift my elbow. “My lovely non-human producing uterus, currently in monthly revision, is stimulating my intestinal muscles to contract.” The poor man blinks, not saying a word of course.
“That’s what I thought, you privileged piece of…”, I mutter, and shut my mouth to prevent myself from becoming one of those orange tanned ladies, wearing windshield wiper size eyelashes. I leave him gobsmacked, and speed towards the supermarket entrance.

Toilet, toilet, please come to me, dear toilet. I squish my buttocks. My hollow passage, a.k.a. the vagina, is now collapsing, making me moan in silence. A woman, not caring about her visible grey roots, unapprovingly lifts her nose, while I grab the last pack of XL-tampons from the shelf in front of her. Then, I find the aisle of glorious, lifesaving, stomach perforating pills. I grab the large bottle of Advil and chug some before reaching the ladies’ room.
My converse squeak on the polished floor, as I see the yellow sign. “Closed for cleaning”.
Uh, NO, no, not today. I instead stomp into the men’s room. A zitty faced teenager, with way too much gel in his shiny curls, is just popping one of his zits above the sink.
“EXPLOOODING UTERUS”, I cry out loud. He jumps up. “You can listen how I will die and come back to life in the next 10 minutes, or so.” The boy’s eyes turn larger than golfballs. I think it might be because of the fist width size tampon, which I’m unpacking now.
“…, but I don’t recommend it”, I continue. The boy grabs his bag, and runs out.