I spent my New Year's Eve at a rock club in downtown Chicago, watching a reggae band perform, alone, by myself. I had such grand plans that night, but none of them worked out. As I stood there, I realized I had become that awkward 25-year-old seemingly past his prime without any real reason to be at the show anymore. At least I was dressed more for a business conference than a concert, which made it such that I appeared successful. Usually those creepy old dudes at shows who don't belong there anymore wear some hideous tight shirts they found in the Dumpster behind the thrift store, making them appear to be at least one of the following: 1) An alcoholic 2) Unemployed 3) A sex offender wanted in at least three states. At least my formal attire and bling-bling IUB ring discounted any accusations of such.
Other than that, I'm OK.