The Friday Morning Tradition
There's nothing like that feeling of struggling to wake up on a Friday morning. Your mouth tastes like a cat took a crap in it. Your legs are achy from pooling alcohol. Your clothes (which you slept in) reek of smoke. You're still a little drunk. Friday morning. My life is a series of bars. Dave, Mark, and I hit a few last night, looking for good times and intellectual stimulation. We ended up somewhere in Walker's Point in a hole in the wall bar watching a handful of scantily clad girls grind each other, dancing on the bar to Willa Ford's "I Wanna Be Bad." Life is good.
