I think it's more of a matter of human evolution. As we get better access to food, it is only natural that our bodies will grow bigger. Therefore, with each passing generation people are getting marginally taller.
I wish that were the case. That exceptions were born, not made, along the evolutionary ladder; and that talent is limitless. But my grandfather was 6'1"...what's up with that? But only in his prime. No one would believe that to be possible. I used to be bitter, but I was just trying to eat. Losing 20 plus pounds along the way, and yummy steamed white stuff with paste...not pace. Sometimes ramen noodles w/out the noodles, like ye old last proud Germanese doggie left laughing along the wasabi breezeway. I wish I had make-believe perfect concentration pills then (so I could tell you now, why they don't work, and celebrities semi-regularly drop-dead, never *satisified*), so that then I would know I was capable of concentrating and being a potential Harmontard "maniac,
maniac...!" *don't* want to hear it, nope, I'm not living to be congratulated everyday, today. Never was a need, just me, like OJ, never was into Emma Watson or fantasy, only AppleMJ, the MJ I never paid much attention to. I hear that's unusual for INFP's, but it's not true. I used to watch Bruguera-Muster from friendly recorded VHS tape, over and over, on rabit ears t.v....doing my best to save da family, from behind closed shared coridors, "sacrificing" my own best marks, but I've never received an ounce of credit for that...but know I'm just as smart as, absolutely, absolutely "could have been," but I have a strong detest for now. It's easy to be a professional, in comparison; even easier to be forgotten. Jaded, it's better to have known, and grown, into an inner grem*lin. Today. I imagine that Donald Young, grows one, loses the hangdog demeanor, with one dream: "I want to fight you to the mother-bl**ping death (jeepers), because *I know I'd never be able to take the last punch.*" It's an important distinction to reach, when you're only swinging with conviction at flies, but not your fellow man. That's the important part. Dignity, dignity...you're *lost, if you've never had to *found* it, whew! Focus on the little things, and not highly appraised shrink whose there half-because they care, half-becasue they could have taken credit for turning you into their human experiment today, take notes, what have you, and really only, because ultimately they're paid to, or coerced into. Somehow, it just doesn't *feel* the same. When you've reached the stage of the "!000" Yeard Stare," lo...
ng after, that's when the exclamation mark rises. You are your own socket, a wry smile, and inner glee. Put some chapstick on, but only if you can afford it. Don't really care today. The greater the lost potential, the greater the will to overcome. Make your inner desire, something frozen and ferocious...something to lick-on, and should anyone ask. Laugh, and spit particles, in *focused* space. In your *own* little world, when the *crowd* ceases to exist; *only, innebriated* then, will we know if Donald Young ever had *will* potential...or he was full of, worse than fluff, dust. Whatever became of Evan Tanner, "I've paid my dues...this, is
my day in the sun!" So...("superline...if it ever saves even one 'mad men,' *exonerated* was it worth it? Probably not, but it was the *right* thing to do.") Looking back, to try without dying? I have *no right* too. Doping is a talent too. I don't want to die like Evan Tanner, relying on what's remaining, just because I can. Everyone does it. But Marion Jones glows today, possitively radiates, and I believe her. I can feel her relief, her inner beauty coming through, the *clean* lines, the beginning of an angelic afterglow, because it's the *right* thing to do. While Lance Armstrong, one shelters himself from hell, with a twin who would not otherwise care, more of the like, when you do not see the need to, and make that your company. You have to *want* to go through hell, like it's the only thing that matters, to discover that it was the only thing that ever mattered, and call me then. Having already been through a form of *passing* hell, I thought there was no going back there. But, because the will is good. I learned that I could, and really *needed* to. It's how humans carry along in spirit, when every life trajectory is different. Flip a rock to the moon, in every sunless well of heart
spring with room to grow, a new horizon. It tantalizes you that way, but *only if* you would *flinch.* Don't be scared, homely. "...when, the final outcome is already
known. The only thing you should be concerned about, is the best possible accounting of
self at any cost..." so why begin today? A little less like the long ago, "
ghost-sewn fiber" (loosely, rough-hewn, trnsltd. into "
as I am my own reward," not implied, how [we must not have] inquired), of "Eva Longista..."
I can remember quaking along on my thumb, for the safety
humbling
effect#, of a do or die, "name." Looking back, this is why. This is why taxi drivers w. bad backs, tall for their land in their day, drive 24/2 life, now shorter, post-op, "Boy, I was really some
thing then." But nothing today. And, then that
wry smile, remerges. And everyday, feels like clmibing a mountain...if I *weren't so tired,*
for when
you know you are *not alone.* And discover a solace in a
made-your life destiny, that led you "
so self-senseless-" no doubt, alive, when "glows absentee, when wrong?" A voltage true whispery in your traces, of a single number of all you'll ever
known, and more. From "...imbibed (Alpha)," &
sucking on my thumb, out of my mind, on the verge of what I only thought was redemption, when it only led to further be "...imbued." The
dews never end, when indebted, and the will still kicks. In
scribed "...alone and helpless; everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it;
art of war; human touch, inner beauty." What's missing? Does a singing bowl resonate from the beginning, middle, or to *
what end?*
The most important part, is in every hand, and every stub of the harmless (or handless

. "Why is every life not
perfectly fair? Because, you'd
have to die,
silly, to make it so) me." Just because the Donald didn't eclipse his career height potential, "no reason to residual linger." It's not important anymore, attributes that can't be altered by inflatable silicone baloons, and Windex, what's the point? As an imaginary fashion n
eoaccessory, a side, a part of, that razzles & dazzles so seriously. In every hand, only a
small part of, just in the beginning, just for me, I made a "
liv
e earned, palm app," for
everYoung was, then again, only the (feint?) possibilities.
Whenever I get tired, I
rip my hands into that palm (literally), so I don't get tired.
The fact is, there's never been a shorter Coetzer that hoped, who did not *ignore,* and played *up* to their full potential. Rios wasn't always there in his head, but when he was, he was no feeble-minded, petal pulp spitting, assassin, caving in, just because there's no *process,* the match is going by too fast. This is what happens when you can't arrest yourself on the fly in front of others, and grit your teeth, and bear it. Fact is, height matters at that level. It's why even tanking pros, still find it "easy enough" to put up some games. All the tall ones make it through, all the short ones wither like raisins, who "ants, who never say
can't!" *train their sights on. "Illusions of grandeur," nothing wrong with, but never got anyone anywhere. Short or even average *attribute* people on tour, can't slip, in and out, of Goran Ivanisevic (consciousness).
But, ultimately, why would you want to be "rewarded" for just an attribute...like curves, and already rich, like why Kanye'? Snazzy song, but I know for a fact; he's no Montell Jordan yet, just 6'8" he stood?
Limber!
"
Eva glow, into the teal tan after...(a drifter)," in search of, E
veTea... Until you've, upon that "threshold of (stumbled) absentea(ism), without being...," you're not ready to glow, never really known, until the heart flies by, without a cuase, let's be honest here, other than you're own. At that point, who cares, what the "Jonese's" think. Business talk, for miming sheep. When all else fails, try to do as babies do.
Walk with your palms,
until your feet are ready to.