You took German in high school, and thought going to a place called the “City of Dreams” and the “City of Music” would mean you were constantly being serenaded in a dreamy swirl of delicious beer and apfelstrudel. This was all before you realized Austrians are essentially just poor-humored Germans who are alarmingly good at skiing.
You like beer. A lot. Like I know people always say that, but you’re different. You’re into Pils, and Helles, Marzens, Dunkles, Bocks, Doppelbocks, Weissbiers, and Weizenbocks. All of them. Sometimes you feel bad about the snarky reviews you leave on beer articles, but did that writer live in Schwabing for six months, right around eight years ago? Wait, they did? Shit.
You went through a stage where you only wore extremely high black boots and black overcoats with hand-stitched skull patches and listened to NDT, Medieval Metal, and Trance. And even though you’re now a financial consultant, you still occasionally rebel by not shaving every day.