Mixing drink and work never hurt anyone. The dudes on Mad Men do it all the time. You only saw the pilot, but it seemed like things were going okay for them. Hell, Hemingway drank and he won the Nobel Prize. In fact, you can't think of a single reason not to get a drink. Who's the boss here? That's right. You.
You meet your friends and order a drink. They're all so happy to be finished for the night, and for a second you're jealous. But then you realize that they'll never know true freedom. That they'll never feel the excitement of having a weekend whenever they want it.
A server comes up and they all order another round.
"Come on," they say. "Just one more."
You finish the last sip of your drink and stand up. You turn to leave, but your eyes catch on the most attractive person in the bar. And, surprisingly, they're looking at you. They must recognize the boss-like confidence you've had since cancelling your insurance.
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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