Everyone Hates The Tall Guy: Flash Fiction

I’m the tall guy standing by the stage at the concert, and everyone hates me. For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats. I hear things sometimes like, 

“Watch out for that big tall guy.”

“That’s just great, a big tall guy.”


“If I get stuck behind this big tall freak I’m going to flip the fuck out.” 

You don’t think I can, but I can hear you. That’s the benefit of also having big ears, I guess. 

But I’d like to make a clarification: I’m 6’2”, which isn’t so tall at all. The average American male is five feet and nine inches tall. That puts me only five inches over the norm, or—on a bell-shaped normal distribution chart—roughly one standard deviation away from the average. You can’t fault a guy who’s one standard deviation away from the average.

Try not to assume I’m good at basketball. I’m not. Never have been. My body movement’s utter lack of grace pretty much rules out sports for me. It takes a lot of effort to move my limbs, and it’s often an awkward effort. My friends have said that I sit down on the ground like a camel does, bending backward at the knees and falling somewhat. 

The weather isn’t different up here. 

My father isn’t the Jolly Green Giant. 

I didn’t break my mother’s vagina. 

The view isn’t even all that great when I can feel laser eyes of hate burning into the back of my skull. 

I’m guessing you probably still don’t feel sorry for me. That’s okay. Being tall, incidentally, means I have a pretty tall penis—though it doesn’t always keep me warm at night. 

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