Rupert

He proposed to her right before he came. His loving gaze was framed by her ankles in his hands. The lights were dimmed and the sheets were hardly rustled and it would have been romantic if she hadn't been a prostitute and it hadn't been the forteenth time he tried and he didn't have an emotional episode for fifty seven minutes of his one hour expenditure.

His theory was that in the heat of the moment, a woman would assosciate the feeling of orgasm with marriage and duly marry him. In action, he failed to realize that his orgasm did not equate her orgasm, leaving his proposal to fall on deaf ears and artic loins.

He would then cry in an attempt to guilt them into a meaningful marriage, but the obvious absence of wealth, let alone existential power, left him to be known as the flu shot lover--quick yet nagging.

His name was Rupert and he was a pitiful man.

He wasn't even fat or that ugly--Yeah, he was a little awkwardly proportioned... His head was a little bulbous and his arms were freakishly long, but anyone wouldn't look so tremendous if they were devastatingly sure that style entailed rust coloured cordoroy pants, running shoes, and a consistently trite graphic t-shirt.

He won twelve fantasy baseball leagues last year. He horrified all his competitors at how hard he worked and thusly served as a catalyst for them to stop playing. Which is mostly why he won.

He played the lottery every other month. He switched to boxer briefs after skimming through a GQ magazine.

He made everyone feel devastatingly uncomfortable at all times, but was admirably delusional as to consistently do nothing about it, catering to the admirably delusional people who were so compassionate that they would hang out with a corpse, vehemently arguing that it being dead was society's 'opinion,' if it meant that they didn't have to own up to the idea of them being freakish.

Since the age of forteen, Rupert was hanging in there, misunderstood, and 'chilled' at home every weekend. Teachers gave him good grades, passing him on like a tremendous cross of inexplicable behaviors, which gave him the due course to afford to be able to propose to prositutes every Sunday night after singing out of tune in the church choir.

"God didn't bless everyone with a sense of pitch," a church goer patted to her daughter, "but He did bless all of us with our hearts."

Secretly, she hated gays, arabs, blacks--admired the jews, but did not trust the jews, with her great, God given heart.

The prostitute, after coddling Rupert, collected her money that was left on the dresser, put on her silk robe, and headed to the door.

She turned her head--

"Hey Rupert?" she said, in a prositutes attempt at sounding maternal.

"Yah?"

"Hang in there!"

The door closed. His laptop opened. He played internet games online and owned people online as she bought a new pair of shoes as a therapist was sleeping knowing that one day everyone would realize they needed therapy and all the sane would be two steps ahead of them and have already killed themselves.