Chairs. It absolutely sucks. No one worships you, but nearly everyone from the lowest peasants to the High King and barons of Attica and the head of the Assembly uses you and yet none of them appreciate you. You spend your days being manifested more than anyone else on Olympus, every time someone down below sits on a chair, and you spend all that time staring at different sets of buttocks. It varies from some sweaty peasant exhausted after a day in the fields, through blacksmiths who stink of the forge and potters and sculptors who get clay all over you, all the way up to smartalecs like Socrates who sprawls his huge heavy buttocks on you for hours while droning on and on about the latest holes he’s decided to pick in something. Pythagorus is even worse; muttering endlessly about triangles and carving them with his thumb nail into your varnish. In a thousand years, archaeologists will be able to tell which chairs Pythagorus sat in because of this. The only upside to the job are the rare occasions when someone decides to have sex on you, but the god of beds gets to enjoy this far more often and he gets to hang out with Aphrodite (who can barely remember my name most of the time). I do get included in my manifest form in artwork; on vases and marbles, but the focus is always on the person sitting on me; never on the god working his butt making it possible for them. But the very worst thing is that you get used the same way – and unappreciated the same way – by your fellow Olympians, none of whom work half as hard as I do. Zeus only ever gets off my back long enough to toss a few thunderbolts whenever he feels like a storm.