Jeremy normally doesn’t go to bars by himself.
He’s here at one in Berkeley to make himself feel uncomfortable.
He buys a drink at the bar and takes out a notepad.
He observes the couple near him, they’re having a pleasant conversation. The man wears a round, expensive gold watch and a gold Cal jacket. His girlfriend wears a blue long sleeve shirt.
He writes a sentence in his pad and feels like a fraud.
He takes out his smartphone and writes this post, in the third person, because Jeremy’s afraid of getting too close to himself.
Also, people might think he’s just texting some one to meet him. That’s a lie.
“It’s ok,” he says to himself.
He talks to the bartender. She’s cute, she has nice eyes and speaks with self assurance and wears her hair in a ponytail. She must get hit on a lot.
He should be writing his grad application.
He must confess to the reader, he bought a box of condoms and they’re in his backpack.
He is not a douche, he’s preparing for the future.
“Going home now.”