Molehills

Some make mountains out of molehills. But others make molehills out of mountains. The latter must quietly loathe the former; for every painstaking hour spent concealing, minimising, understating, hiding skeletons in closets or elephants under beds, the mountain makers spend seconds exploding gaudy importance out of nothingness. Oh you cut your finger? End of the world is it? I've got a prosthetic leg on and you haven't even noticed. What's that you're crying over? Your boyfriend told you that skirt does, in fact, make your bum look big? Great, I've got six months to live. No. These things are never said. The latter remain silent, whilst the former leave their mess of molehill mountains lying in their wake. They just trudge on carrying mountain-heavy molehills in their pockets, weighing them down like lead weights.