So, I met this guy on Coffee Meets Bagel. He seemed perfect on paper—tall, dark, handsome, with a love for dogs and a strong affinity for sarcasm. We exchanged witty banter over text for a week, which felt like a promising prelude to a quirky rom-com. What could go wrong, right? We agreed to meet at a cozy little coffee shop in Brooklyn, with the promise of artisanal lattes and avocado toast so fresh, you could practically hear them ripening. I arrived first, assuming my usual role as the early bird, and snagged a small table by the window, perfect for people-watching in case things got awkward. He walked in, looking every bit the dreamy caricature of his profile picture, complete with a mysterious air that had less to do with intrigue and more to do with the overuse of hair gel. But hey, we all have our foibles. He approached the table, and just as I was about to greet him, he tripped over the leg of a chair, launching his phone into his freshly brewed cup of coffee. Trying to erase the awkwardness from the moment, he stood up with a sheepish grin, dripping with Americano, and said, "I swear, this isn't a regular thing unless it's with a side of cookies." I offered him my napkin, attempting to suppress a laugh and a sincere urge to apologize to the floor. We sat, and I hoped that was the worst