Grocery store checkout fat. This has a fun little intro -   As I got in line with my cart, I saw a trim gentleman talking to a huge beast that used to be female. I couldn't see the divider between their food and assumed they they were a couple. That's not uncommon where I live. All of the sudden, a pert, trim blonde passed us and gave him a kiss. I thought, "well, that certainly makes more sense!".  On to the main story.  The cashier was enormous. 5'4", at least 350. It had maybe six inches to any one side of it in its pen. Lazy, half open eyes, an avalanche of udders cascading over a pannus that would make Jabba the Hutt turn even greener with Envy. The makeup job, while competently done, did nothing to hide the premature aging that only fat can provide. Forty? Who knows.  The entire time, a fan is blowing on the fat, its  name actually taped to the front. It figures. Feeling cold is thin privilege. No interaction, no smile, nothing. Like the contents of its dying soul, I'm sure. It tries to cover its acrid, oily putrescence with a potpourri of perfume and deodorant, which only serves to widen the chasm of the sense of what is versus what should be via simultaneous olfactory comparison. The fan? The fan might be cooling the beast, but it's also blowing its combined essences of artificial beauty and actual death into my unwilling nostrils. Its lazy, inhuman gaze of contempt at my shitlady tells an old, wholly familiar story. I conclude the sale. I leave. One story of fats among thousands, I'm sure. I encounter an obeast on a scootypuff on the way out. Nothing new.  I hate that I'm used to this....