The gang solves the midget crisis.

There’s a midget that lives in my apartment complex.* I saw him, as I was returning from my walk-jog, which was actually more of “just a walk” if we’re going to be technical about it, you nit-picking asshole. He had parked his car and was carrying a pack of about 30 water bottles. I thought he must be pretty strong because I’m full grown and that’s pretty heavy for me. His legs looked like they may snap, but you know what? They didn’t. Then I thought that the stairs must be awfully hard to maneuver because they’re a bit steep, but that was a silly thought because he obviously lives on the first floor. Then I thought about what kind of furniture he has. I wonder if they make midget-furniture? Because there’s clearly no need for full-size furniture, unless he’s dating or married to a full-grown, or entertains full-growns a lot. I mean, we probably don’t give a second thought to it, but if I were two feet shorter, my couch would feel massive. Like on those old Gallagher comedy sessions, where he’d have a giant chair he’d sit on, before he started smashing watermelons.** And in what kind of bed does he sleep? My double-sized bed feels a wee bit snug on many occasions, but if I had no legs, I probably wouldn’t notice. In fact, I’d probably think my room was modeled inefficiently because I had such a large piece of furniture that was used so little, yet was taking up so much space. I guess if he rotates the bed, front to back, and side to side, then that’s probably not such a waste. But wouldn’t that be tricky for him? It’s tricky for me to flip the mattress. I’m just saying. These thoughts floated in my head for a good ten minutes, then periodically throughout the rest of the day. I’ve been very tempted to look into his car to see how the pedals are rigged. But I haven’t yet, because I am both a scholar and a gentlewoman. Also, I’d be afraid he’d see me and get mad and give chase. Or he’d think I was going to break into his car, or was harassing him, and those might make him feel bad, and that’s not what I’m trying to accomplish. If anything, I’m trying to increase my knowledge about and sensitivity towards the plight of the midget. I probably deserve some kind of commendation. I’m not saying I deserve the Nobel prize, but an honorary degree from Columbia would be nice for the old mantel. I’d put it right next to the picture of my family, the Valentine’s Day card from my boyfriend, and that white ceramic peach I bought at that garage sale.


* He may be a dwarf. I’m not really sure how that works.


** Classic fragment. But I made up for it in the next sentence, where I prominently displayed my awareness that sentences are not to be ended in a preposition. Except for the last sentence just now, where I actually ended with the word “preposition” which was a bit ironic. And now we’re back to bad grammar. This exposition has been a colossal waste of time.