All my life I've loved food. I ate to my heart (and stomach's) content; that became my downfall. The turning point in my life was when I was at my greatest weight, in front of all my classmates. The one thing I had counted on to save me from embarrassment was a chair. In my trauma, I focused all the blame on that chair. It had failed me just as it had failed to do the one thing it was created for. When I began accumulating my fortune, I finally found the means to support my warped revenge; I now seek and collect the distorted corpses of chairs. Call it art if you must, but it IS revenge. These that I find were not created to bear weight comfortably, some not at all. Under my ownership, they will never live out their purpose in life and so they will not live at all. They are corpses, a shell of their former selves, dying, if not already dead. And yet hours upon hours, day in and day out, staring at my collection of bones, these creatures of creation taunted me with their useless beauties. How is it that I've come to see myself in these distortions? Am I, too, nothing more that just a pretty face? Do I flaunt my looks and extravagance to no use? What do I offer the world but a worthy glance? This shell of a body that houses my misunderstood mind and my listless soul. How has my lonesome heart come to find its home in all these odd creations of perpetual beauty in so simple an object of every day life?