Recovering from the traumatic brain injury of social media

It's been a long time since I've been to a show. I'm disoriented, vacant. This was supposed to be a night for the two of us, but we couldn't find a babysitter. The bouncer asks me, What's that in my pocket? as he's checking my ID and patting me down. My weed in a lip balm case, I realize. “Some lip balm” I tell him, not without hesitation, but with just the right amount of that and eye contact. “Alrighty, you have a good night,” this authority to ruin my night tells me, and I am in, and it is showtime.