I overheard a man complaining about toilet paper and soap dispensers. Apparently, one was down to cardboard and the other was completely empty. Thankfully, my tongue made sure that neither would ever be my issue. This man was sad, and I suspect, had always been old. He did not cry but the full-figured woman who routinely bent his ear and spent his money kept the sun below the horizon and the clouds around his neck. They choked and stifled his ability to do more than gasp and complain. That he had been gifted a place in life, generations before he was born, made me angry at times. He had no reason to incessantly moan about such insignificant mishaps, while his trivial sense of purpose sprayed from the shovel that put the cursive in the letters of his family name. It bothered me more as he laughed and smiled at inopportune times, mainly when my guardian asked for what he was owed. The cycle was always the same, no matter the era and no matter the tools, someone would eventually find themselves born into a good situation and the others were left trying to avoid filling the narrowest of slots and dampest of cracks. And now, the big woman who could have just as easily been blessed with a plunger and broom was making demands from her seat at the table. I found the cold front that was soon to be arriving quite necessary- despite my well-being feeling hopeful of ascension. I had not been out much these last few weeks and now my food dish seemed unappealing, but at least my fortune felt brave, and my experiences could be easily taught. But then again, if my shoulders had been scaled a few inches wider and my back more rigid than fluff, my kind would be ruling the edges of the countryside. Maybe then the man would have nothing to complain about. With no freedom to plant a future fortune, and no power to airbrush manners and class, the fat woman would be begging us to sit down and have a kindhearted talk-for a few dollars more, she would happily take out the trash.