Excuse me while I reflect upon the gross injustice of my life.
Okay, I’m back. It is absurdly unfair that Mason Plumlee gets to dunk, but I don’t. He’s not a better person than I am. It’s not like he single-handedly saved a bunch of orphans from a burning orphanage, and that’s why he gets to be seven feet tall. He just happens to be a really tall guy, and with his tallness comes the ability to dunk basketballs.
Every dunk I watch is ripping a gaping hole into my soul. Then, when the Nets broadcast team re-airs Plumlee’s dunks in YES-mo, all I can think about is that maybe I would still be with Jennifer if only I could dunk. Making videos featuring people who can dunk doesn’t count, according to her. I used to think that she didn’t know what she was missing when she left me, but now I understand fully: why would you date a guy who can’t dunk where there are guys out there who can?
I didn’t do anything to deserve this agony.