Curity Nursing Pads, you used to be cool. You never made me crinkle annoying cellophane in a sleeping baby's ear when I packed up. You were 700 layers thick and could make it through long naps and other catastrophes. You screamed to the world through my shirt, "This woman is wearing the world's most unstreamlined nursing pads because they're the cheapest, and so is she!" You had that freaky lady with the spaghetti hair baring her teeth at a pathetically uncorpulent baby on the box. Then on the other side of the box you had all those helpful directions for breastfeeding, once dramatically interpreted to unsettling effect by a certain holy man in my very own family room. I bet those directions used to help a lot of people with breastfeeding. Oh, and the box was as big as my sofa. I never lost track of that bad boy, that's for sure.
You've sold out, Curity. Now you're oval and and individually wrapped and sold in compact boxes with cross-section diagrams and arrows explaining lame things about the secrets of your absorbency, like I care.
You're still the cheapest, so you know I'll keep coming back. But you've changed, man. You've changed.