My welder told me this story today.
Jimmy's brother Ted was 45 years old, happily married, two teenage kids, lovely home. He had a nice little hardware business that every year provided a six figure income which, in rural southern George, enabled him to make the mortgage, meet all expenses, and build up sizeable savings and stock accounts. Ted had worked seventy-hour weeks for as long as he could remember, and had figured he always would. But now he was slowing down, no longer eagerly jumped out of bed in the morning to meet the challenges of the day. He found he was looking for excuses to close the shop early. The change gnawed at him.
One day Ted was having a drink with a good friend he hadn't seen for a couple of years. His friend asked how life was treating him, and Ted surprised himself by confessing life actually didn't feel all that great these days. His friend commiserated with him, then said he ought to try something he'd recently found helpful, stuff called crystal meth. The friend said he'd been using it for a few weeks, said Ted should give it a shot.
Ted bought some, took one hit, and wanted another. And that was it: The End. It was the end of his stock and bank accounts, his business, his home, and his marriage. He now lived in his mother's house.
Oh, Ted knew he should kick the habit, get a job, get a life. But he didn't care...didn't care.
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