Point being, you never really leave The Real World, not if you're blessed with ripped abs or a boomin' rack.
I was like, "Mike" (that's his real name), "doesn't this lifestyle wear you down?"
He goes, "Yeah, but I take care of myself. First thing, dude: I don't mix my drinks. If I'm drinking vodka, I keep with vodka. Shots make that hard, though. Somebody hands you a shot, it's hard to be like, 'Can I have something else?' But for the most part..."
"But what about your soul?" I said. "Does it take a toll on your soul?" He looked down at his drink.
Psych! I'm just shittin' y'all. I didn't ask him that.
This is us, bros. This is our nation. A people of savage sentimentality, weeping and lifting weights.
He was the kind of guy who was always telling you what kind of guy he was.
I want you to know that, on two separate instances, when the subject came up of whether Coral's mind-clobbering breasts are real, she grabbed them (somewhat violently), squeezed them together while pushing them up from below, and sort of shook them. Were they real? I don't know. Are the Blue Ridge Mountains real?
Remember senior year in college? Remember what it was like? Partying was the only thing you had to worry about, and when you went out, you could feel everybody thinking you were cool. The whole idea of being a young American seemed fun. Remember that? I don't, either. But the Miz remembers. He figured out a way never to leave that place. Bless him, bros.