Ah, dive bars. Places with lights so dim, you can barely see the dirt on your pint glass. Where the beer-soaked wood creeks under your boot, between skips from the jukebox. Where you can’t tell whether the wall is holding up the dusted rows of decades-deep décor, or vice-versa. Where the hangover comes in smell-form. Where the only good Tinder dates ever happen.
I could go on, but you get the point. Roll up your sleeves, my fellow patrons. We’re about to go diving.