Badminton Stunk

Today's badminton was a drag. The place was packed for the second straight week, loads of good players. I knew this meant a lot of sitting, still I pulled out my racket vowing to make the most of the few games I'd be able to get in. I played a mere 3 games... three games with the absolute worst badminton players imaginable. Mojo is multiple times better. The combination of circumstances and this damn compulsion of mine to be polite to strangers made tonight feel negative. My fault. Just a complete waste of time. The only people that weren't some variety of Asian, SE Asian was this group of derelect hippie kinda sorts and me. Oh they latched onto me. Damn, absolute waste of time. I cannot emphasize how bad these people were at badminton. Distortedly bad, Jerry Lewis flopping around as a badminton player. Now I don't claim to be great at the sport or any other but I'm pretty good at this one for a dreamy-headed amature. I have a competative nature that has evolved over the years, I don't need to win, but it helps me focus. Being in battle, tuned in, physical exersion, stradegy, harnessing skills. I feel a bit like an asshole, but I really enjoy that heightened sense of being that battle can bring; paddycake is only so much fun. Every once in a while I'd rocket one in, somewhat to the annoyance of the girl on the other side. Marshmellows are only entertaining for about 10min max. I was a good fellow, though. The plastic smile I put on ached after the 10th whiff, hurt after the 20th, and felt like it was full of hot needles by the end. The pain grew progressively worse, less than half into the 3rd and final game I decided I was playing to get this thing over with. I was gonna try and hit only really good shots, I wouldn't blow them outta the water, only good shots. Surprisingly, I came nowhere near to hitting them all.