You know damn well that Virginia-Highland doesn’t end with an s.
It’s 60 degrees outside. If it’s March, you’re wearing shorts and sandals. If it’s October, you’re bundled up in a sweater.
You refuse to drink Pepsi.
You don’t pronounce the second t in Atlanta.
Someone says “Hotlanta,” and you get pissed.
You know “420” only means beer.
You know the “King of Pops” is not Michael Jackson.
You’re tall, and they still call you shawty.
You don’t get alarmed when you hear the terms smothered, covered, chunked, diced, and capped.
You realize “How bout them Dawgs” is not a question.
You set your dating app radius to four miles.
Your wing order is lemon pepper wet, all flats.
You always refer to Ponce de Leon Avenue as “Ponce.”
You consider turn signals to be a sign of weakness.
If the bread aisle is empty, you check the weather forecast.
You know the difference between the “inner” and the “outer” Perimeter.
You know at least five people trapped in their cars overnight from that ice storm.
You’ll knuck if someone bucks.
Your sports teams keep finding new ways to lose.
You always expect to see a wreck when you round the Grady Curve (plus, you know where that is).