You wipe the vomit off with her jacket before leaning in for another attempt begin rummaging through her pockets, carefully navigating through her skin-tight denim.
The first pocket was fruitless, the second too. Now you slide your fingers into her back pocket. You feel the keys. Your senses are numb, your fingers are tingling. You are so close. You grab the Winnie the Pooh key chain and slowly start pulling. You get the key chain out, but the keys are tightly wedged in her too-tight jean shorts. You dig your fingers in one last time in an attempt to free them as your mother mumbles the name of a man you have never met. She giggles and turns around, only to see her son, not the hand of a past love, groping her ass.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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