Holy moly! This is a date, not a march to the electric chair. You look terrified, like you didn't do your Social Studies homework and I'm about to make you to tell me what the ramifications of the Magna Carta were. Take it down a notch, dude! You're more wound up than a Hot Wheels matchbox car.
I'm just sitting here sipping on my vodka and cran watching you oscillate between awkward, stilted conversation attempts, straight-up conversation avoidance, and sheer terror. I'm not an IRS agent performing an audit on you; I'm your freakin' date!
Not that I would consider touching you, but you look really sweaty sitting there trying to think up things to talk about. I thought about sprinkling a crushed up Xanax on your mashed potatoes when you excused yourself to pee, but I feel like drugging you without your consent would be frowned upon.
For a split-second, I wondered if this might be my fault. I flashed through a checklist: Did I have something in my teeth? Did I forget to put on deodorant? Is this dress on inside-out? Did I mistakenly blurt out that I was going to perform oral surgery on you without anesthetic after dessert? Did I do anything to cause this extreme reaction?
Hell no, this isn't my fault! Oh lord, you're shaking more than Sandy and Danny did in the Shake Shack (and that was a lot!) Chill, homie! This will be over soon. Like, super soon. Like, now.