You turn the arms to the left, and the world blurs around you. When it comes to a stop, you are somewhere in the near past. You wander down the hall back to your room. Inside you are drinking a Natty and playing Halo. You walk in and tell yourself to get to work. Confused and drunk, you throw the controller at you. Future you runs up and hugs old you, telling him to calm down. You explain that you are from the future with a mission to write a paper. You've never been so close to yourself, and, in the florescent lighting of the dorm room, you notice how strong of a chin you have. You're beautiful, damnit. You pucker your lips and slowly move forward, making contact with yourself. It's amazing. You love each other. Forget school. Forget the real world, this is love.
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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