I grew a rat. The summer dudded out and everything started prettily to rot. It had happened before, but on purpose this time. You hope it’ll just show up on your pants cuff and you could brush it off like a burr seed. But when it’s on the bottom of your foot you might be forced to make choices. You walk hobbled so it won’t squish. Its spine is to the ground and it’s got no feet of its own. It screams at the least amount of pressure. It bites down on your toe, hard, to remind you of your decision. You thought you were saving a life one of these days. Now you’re obese in a wheelchair with a rat foot.

“Hey guys, do you know what it’s like being obese in a wheelchair with a rat foot? This.”

You like to remember a time when it was your birthday. It may as well have been the only year. There were people around for this one.

Still most of what you ever recall is having felt insulted. If it’s not an indignity it’s not worth remembering. Isn’t that right, rat foot?