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.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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