You’ve celebrated a major event by ruining your pots and pans (Heat Championship; Fidel Castro dying; those two times the Marlins won the World Series, etc.) And you know THE BEST spot to party is in front of La Carreta on Bird Road.
You rep “The U” so damn hard, but you probably didn’t even go there.
You spent most of your childhood perfecting your skating skills at Hot Wheels. You would later go there for all ages parties when you were 15 to perfect your sucia skills.
You have five or more Flanigan’s cups chilling in your house.
You know somebody that knows somebody that knows Pitbull.
You’ve been to the “insane asylum” on Krome.
You literally felt your heart break when D. Wade took his talents to Chicago.
You’ve never felt more pure unadulterated joy when he returned to the 305.
You’ve bought mamoncillos, churros, water, soda, gatorade, flowers or limes from a street vendor.
You’ve tasted the sweet sweet nectar of Iron Beer, Jupiña and Materva.
You never take out of town friends to party in the Grove because it’s deader than dead.
You’ve felt such intense road rage that acting on it and going to jail wouldn’t even phase you. Our drivers don’t believe in turning signals, insurance or basic human decency.
You’ve gotten lost in the maze that is Hialeah. And questioned every life choice you’ve made up until that point.
You’ve experienced a seething hatred for the rocks that double as street signs in Coral Gables. Seriously, all of the streets are NAMES and then you put them on a rock… on the ground?!
“Bro” and “dale” are part of your daily vocabulary (even if you don’t want them to be). Your ability to speak proper English is dwindling as a result.
You have a mango or avocado trees in your backyard (or you know someone that does).
You’ve gone to both Santa’s Enchanted Forest and the Youth Fair (and you’ve memorized the theme songs for each).
Back in the day, you attended a birthday party at Don Carter’s (RIP) or Bird Bowl.
You’ve spent at least one Saturday night watching Sabado Gigante. You’re still terrified of El Chacal and think Don Francisco is immortal.
You’ve indulged in some tiki tiki music and made bad life choices at Club Space.
You either love reggaeton or pretend that you hate it.
You won’t admit it, but you’ve shopped at either ÑOOO! Que Barato or Valsan.
You have a mild panic attack when another football team comes close to a perfect season because you don’t want the flory taken away from the ’72 Dolphins.
You know better than to set foot on South Beach during Memorial Day Weekend or Spring Break.
You’re fiercely loyal to the neighborhood you grew up in. (One time for Westchester!)
You’ve at one point or another said, “I live where you vacation.” Even though you go to the beach like twice a year.
You might’ve shed a tear at Tarpon Bend closing because Friday happy hour will never be the same again.
Despite the face-eating zombies, bandwagon fans and the chongas, you love calling Miami home.