Lucky Bastard

I spent the 4th of July weekend in Atlanta with Chris. We had decided to throw a big ole’ bash on Monday, complete with four gallons of mai-tais, a full complement of Barbie plates/napkins and a gigantic American flag tart. If the neighbors had wondered about Chris’ sexual orientation, I think the barbeque provided tacit clarification.
Having been away from Atlanta for over a year, this party was the perfect opportunity to reconnect with a couple of lost friends. I realized just how lost one of them had become when Mark asked who’s apartment we were in and who the hell Chris was. Realizing that he had never met Chris, I mustered up the remaining fibers of sobriety and took the next ten minutes to wax sentimental about the incredibility of the last eight months. It’s been a while since I have actually recounted the course of our relationship. This particular conversation provided one of those random tests that forces you to check your feelings for a moment and objectively analyze whether you’re a blundering moron or a lucky bastard.

I sided with option B) lucky bastard.
Perhaps it was the mai-tais.