It is almost quite astounding that such an immense amount of mediocrity could manifest itself within one body; in fact, one would bet that should every American male between the ages of 25 through 35 overlay themselves on top of each other, it would surely produce something quite reflective of Marcus's physicality. He's the kind of guy that would say thanks to someone when they told him hew was at the top of the bell curve. Crew cut, ball team branded, hoodie, parachute pants, average height, build, and intelligence; however he hadn't been completely damned to wash away in the camouflage of the median. His parents had proudly passed on a slight set of presentable genes: High cheek bones and a thick jaw placed him slightly above a single deviation of attractiveness and this was perhaps his only talent: one not even earned, but given.
Marcus was slumped sedately on a wood stained plastic bench in the heart of Baltimore, carelessly cupping a mug of designer coffee that had begun to sneak its way into his daily diet, draining both his finances and physique of their proper position. He was people watching waiting for the bus. He always people watched, it somewhat cemented his confidence knowing that he was just like everyone else. Unlike so many others, Marcus fortunately knew his place and was quite content with it.
By day he was a graphic designer and by night he was a bar fly, attracted to single 40 somethings like a moth to a flame. Despite his deplorable tastes and dull-witted testosterone poisoned comrades, Marcus was secretly a grand romantic. He had every Hugh Grant movie engraved on his DVR and wished he wasn't an inner city kid so he could have married a high school sweet heart, joined the army, come back, and been a mechanic, but life quite hadn't turned out that way and he's just had to deal with it.
So, tirelessly tumbling in the grand cycle of life, he continued to repeat his daily ritual too long into his life and never found true romance or purpose.