It was like we got each other, without fully knowing at this point exactly what it was we were getting. The best part? “Fat Mike” wasn’t shitting on my post-date high. And, for that matter, neither was “Gay Shame Mike.” Or “Survivor’s Guilt” Mike. All the Mikes that for the past fifteen years had conspired to convince me that because my parents had died, or because I wasn’t straight, or because I was once 250 pounds, I didn’t deserve to be happy. Or to be loved. They kept their collective mouths shut the entire way home and allowed me to just be. I had never enjoyed a bus ride to New Jersey
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