650 Words. 3 Minute Read.

I haven’t woken up to a three-shot breakfast since gamedays in college. In those days I’d stumble down the stairs in my boxers and there’d be half a dozen guys passed out - some sharing the couch, others on the floor using bunched-up sweatshirts as pillows - all snoring like hobos in a box car and reeking of cigarettes. I’d crack two dozen eggs, fill the toaster with white bread, and pour “morning glory’s” for the gang … vast amounts of Jim Beam, Coke, and opaque ice cubes in plastic cups from Sanford Stadium.