It’s a weekly fear of mine that someday I will end up being that creepy old dude at the bar with a bud light draft and onion rings telling the bartender that she’s looking very fit
I really miss going out to the bars, making eye contact with a girl across the way, spending 25 minutes overthinking how to say hi to her—after which I end up walking right past her, going to the bathroom, and then back to the bar to get a third tequila shot.