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Butch
Butch

Yesterday evening I wrote a post about an old classmate named Butch Smith. It has since been deleted.

Several folks from back in the day thought the entry read mean; that there was no reason to hold the 45-year-old Butch Smith accountable for the actions of 18-year-old Butch Smith. And, I must say, in hindsight I 100-percent agree.

I know a lot of people who retain personal teen anger well into their 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s. I am not one of them. I am not the biggest fan of my hometown of Mahopac, N.Y. because—as an adult, and in particular during the recent presidential election—I saw far too much Facebook racism and xenophobia from many of its people (to be clear—not ALL of its people. But many, and this is not a debatable point). But am I still mad at, say, the kid who once bullied me? No. The girls who rejected me? No. The assholes, the thugs, the dicks? No, no, no. Hell, many of them are my friends. The bully (who I count as a pal) was a Quaz.

Why the outlook? Because, once upon a time, we were all complete morons. It’s true. What we were at 18 is not what we are at 45. Back in high school I was a poorly dressed, socially awkward, Ken Griffey, Sr.-loving wanna be. And now, in 2017, I’m a poorly dressed, socially awkward, Ken Griffey, Sr.-loving wanna be. Eh, that didn’t work out.

The point is, to harbor grudges and resentment for past misdeeds is to blame someone who no longer exists. Just as Butch Smith 1990 isn’t Butch Smith 2017, the actions of yesteryear are mere shadows of long ago.

So, if Butch Smith reads this blog (unlikely), I apologize.

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