I’m a young guy who hates to cook. She’s a beautiful waitress who serves food. Of course, I was in love. But even though I frequently ordered out from her restaurant, I figured she didn’t even know I existed. Then one day, after placing an order, I asked if she needed my name.
“No,” she said. “I remember you.”
Now I was on cloud nine. But I quickly fell back to Earth when I got my food. Inside the bag was the sales slip. On it she had written, “Cheeseburger, Med.–Fries–Large Coke, for nerdy guy with bad haircut.”