Once upon a time in a gym, a gym just as any other gym, perhaps even one probably not too far off from where your located, a guy named Mike decided to build muscle.
After 5 years he got respectable gains, not too shabby, fairly good symmetry. Chest was looking good, nice back, great shoulders, and he even didn't shy away from the squat rack, enabling him to develop solid lower-body gains. But those arms, those damn arms! They just didn't get too big no matter what he did. They weren't bad, but they simply weren't commensurate with the gains of his other body parts.
A couple of years later Mike decided to juice. No big deal. He had already built a fairly nice foundation, and was pretty cautious. He made some amazing gains. Huge, bowling ball sized delts, great traps, nice chest, huge quads and hams. But! - those god damn arms just wouldn't grow that much.
Mike did everything he could to deny the fact that he would never have big arms, or arms whose size would complement the gains in the rest of his physique. He took chalk to the gym and was inconsiderate about its messy use, he talked to himself between sets, psyched himself up loudly (after watching a video of Ronnie - Mike had every training video of every pro bodybuilder - his choice of words were "Yeahhhh budyyyyyy"), he went to every Mr. Olympia and Arnold Classic and took pics of himself next to every bodybuilder (people thought he was a weirdo), he even married one of those born-again bubbly fascist aerobics instructors (you know the type - the girl who was fat all her life, lost quite a few pounds, got super-tanned, and decides to dictate to everyone what the "right way" is as though she knew it all along, even when she was a fatty), and went to his brother's wedding with baggy stars and stripes workout pants and a t-shirt that said "Army of one Iron God".
But Mike was miserable deep-down inside, and though he couldn't even necessarily recognize why, there was always some 'trauma' smoldering down below. His arms! Those fucking arms just wouldn't grow.
He did the chin-ups, increased his protein intake to 2.2 gms per pound of bodyweight, skull-crushers were a mainstay, and swore of every fucking Ed Hardy t-shirt known to man.
"Mike", his friend once told him, "people have different genetics. You need to appreciate what you've got and what you can do. Tom Platz could never compete with Arnie in the arms department, but his quads blew arnie's away. Rich Gaspari's arms were no Lee Haney or Bertil Fox, but he did alright for himself, and look where he is now. Mike Katz didn't end up beating Arnie or Louie, but he's still got respect. Lee Priest has arms to spare but he can't even wash his own head when they're pumped. Let it go."
"No! That's it", Mike said, "time for synthol!"
Anyway, to make a long story short, Mike ended up losing his wife (to a bodybuilder with small arms no less), his house, car, friends, sinking dismally deeper and deeper into obscurity and finally dying of a broken heart in some back alley, clutching a syringe of synthol in one hand and pic of Ronnie Coleman's peaks in another.
True story, I shit you not.