Journey of a Toilet Paper

My existence began in the vast pine forests of the Pacific Northwest. A towering tree, once alive with the whisper of wind, was reduced to pulp – the raw material for my humble beginnings. In a sprawling factory, I was born as an indistinguishable roll in a sea of white, my destiny intertwined with the complexities of the North American market.

My first stop was a Costco warehouse, a cavernous space where shoppers wield oversized carts and dreams of bulk discounts. The average Costco member's income boasts a healthy $128,000 annually. I was nestled within a massive package of 30 rolls, each priced at around $0.60. Yet that wasn't the final cost - a swipe of a premium credit card yielded a 2-3% cashback, effectively reducing my price to a mere $0.58-$0.57 per roll.

For the affluent shopper, I represented convenience and value. But my journey was far from over. The hands that plucked me from the store belonged to a wealthy consumer driven by practicality, not desperation.

My counterparts, however, faced a harsher reality. Single rolls, or at best packs of four, lined the shelves of a small, fluorescent-lit convenience store like Dollar General. Here, necessity dictates purchase, not desire for a bargain. My price tag read a daunting $1.00, a significant 67% markup from the warehouse. There was no cashback reward for the weary customer counting out change.

Economics dictated my fate. The convenience store's operating margins are slim, perhaps 1- 3%, a constant struggle to cover rent and wages. Further up the supply chain, distributors add their own markup, and further still, the manufacturing giant that churned me out enjoys the largest profit margin, sometimes as high as 20-30%.

I witnessed firsthand the inequality woven into the fabric of our society. Those with means could stockpile me with ease, their wallets barely noticing the expense. For others, I was a recurring burden, a constant reminder of financial strain.

My purpose is simple: to provide a basic necessity. Yet, my journey is fraught with disparities, a stark reflection of the economic divides that permeate even the most mundane objects. Wealth buys convenience and savings; poverty pays a premium for the very same commodity. My story is one of fibers and fibers, of trees and tills, a stark reminder that even the smallest things can bear the weight of injustice.