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Incredibly Miserably
 

    Diving and digging, setting and spiking, the final volley seems as if it might never end, until finally a surprisingly gentle shot from Victoria catches the other duo off guard and falls gingerly to the sand to end the match.  The crowd responds appropriately with some “aww”-ing interspersed with a bit of cheerful “haw-haw”-ing, and, of course, a round of applause to commend the women for a well-played game.  The women hug, and, as Phil perceives, smash together their curvy parts.  Phil laments the end of the excitement as the crowd starts to dissipate.

    But wait… Two youthful studs approach Victoria.  Their pectorals bulge and their stomachs ripple.  They ask, directing their question only at her, if they could join the game.  Tell those punks to beat it, Phil thinks to Victoria, but she says that sure, they could play.  Phil knows, however, what they really want.  He leers with contempt at these two newcomers who haven’t any notion of impossibleness, though they radiate a patheticness distinctly their own.  The two wieners act like they’re the best volleyball players ever to grace the beach, looking for recognition and winking at Victoria every time they score a point.  Then they give each other double high fives about a hundred times.  Those types are only interested in one thing, and they think they can get it wherever and whenever they want, with their pecs and thongs and packages.

    Phil certainly has little to offer, but, given the chance, he feels he could make her happy.  Given the chance, he would exist only to make her happy.  He would never hit her.  He would spend every penny buying her expensive gifts and taking her to tropical retreats to escape the frigid Midwest winters.  Every morning, breakfast in bed and fresh cut flowers.  

    Of course, those meager offerings could never suffice as adequate tribute to such perfection.  Many other men could give her the same and more.  Most other men could be more attractive, wealthy, romantic.  Few, though, could match him in his most significant marketable attribute, the ability to shield her from sorrowful reality.  He could really make her happy because he had been so really unhappy, and able, therefore, to recognize unhappiness and shelter her from it while avoiding the pitfalls of trying to succeed.  He could listen to his instincts, and act exactly contrarily.  He could sweep her off her feet with the might of his desperation and hold her high above the mire of waist-deep drudgery.   She would only know complete love and devotion and worship.  She wouldn’t suffer like him.  He had failed so incredibly miserably in nearly every endeavor in his thirty-seven years that he   had become an expert in failure.  For her, he could fail to fail.  

    Weak fucking argument, he concedes to himself angrily.



 
 
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