Yesterday would have been my 7th wedding anniversary, a fact which did not occur to me until this morning. I suppose that can be taken as a sign of healing.
Or maybe it’s simply a reflection of how much fun I had at BettyFest.
I mean, how often to you get to play the “You know how I know you’re gay?” game with two gay guys? (Note: It’s not so much funny that way. I thought about segueing into the new game greated by these guys, but might have not really wanted to know the answers). Though based on one impetuous remark, you can use this one next time:
You know how I know you’re gay? I asked how much you’d pay me to take my shirt off when I sing karaoke to Slayer’s “Seasons in the Abyss” and you offered me your platinum credit card.
It just rolls off the tongue.
Or, you know how I know you’re gay? You ordered your SoCo on the rocks. Blasphemy.
You might wonder how one ends up at the Imperial Palace on a Sunday night in Vegas, drinking heavily (that’s one clue) and listening to nearly-universally poor karaoke, the low-light of which was a just-betrothed Marine and his white trash bride attempting some lascivious Prince song.