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Do you ever think back to the mistakes and missteps of your past and have a queasy shiver run down your spine over what a shithead you were? It’s often asked, “If you could go back and tell your younger self something, what would it be?” or some variation of that. When I think about that, I just try to decide which one of my younger selves I’d like to go back in time and punch in the face for being such a worthless dumbass. Let’s dive in.
Six-year-old me shit his pants in the waning months of kindergarten. Wanna go to the bathroom, Kyle? Nope, I think I’ll just shit myself in the middle of a room of all my peers instead. Nice going, dumbass.
A few months later, now in 1st Grade, I, being a six-year-old who’d recently crapped himself, believed the teacher, she being in her 50’s and holding a college diploma, had misspelled the word “favorite” on the chalkboard. I took it upon myself to walk up and erase what I believed to be an incorrect letter; an incredible amount of pompousness from a kid fresh off shitting his pants earlier in the calendar year.
Kid deserves a knuckle sandwich.
In 3rd Grade, I got busted for dropping an f-bomb at recess. Upon being interrogated by my teacher on where I heard the word (tbh probably from my mom – sorry, mom) instead of shutting my mouth and doing my time, I snitched on my boy Jack instantly and pinned it on him, likely through tears. Absolutely embarrassing. Eight-year-old me was a total narc.
Not only would I like to go back and punch this foul-mouthed Fredo Corleone, but I’d invite Jack to come do the same.
This was the year I quit golf because I theorized “It would mess up my baseball swing.” That decision left twenty-four year old me with a ton of catch-up to do when I started golfing again. If I had the chance I’d hop in my DeLorean, gun it to 88 mph, catch this scrub before baseball practice, swing a hook into his gut and tell him, “Go get on the golf course, you’ll always be a terrible hitter anyways.”
Thank god social media wasn’t around to permanently immortalize the AOL Instant Messenger trials and tribulations of this idiot. Thirteen-year-old me publicly lamented a breakup via AIM away message & profile. This shame makes me cringe to this day.
At this age, I’d also throw my gear and angrily cry after losing baseball games. That’s right, I was that guy. This chump deserves to be tossed in a trash can.
I was in high school and therefore was an awful human being. Some highlights:
– Had one line in the school play; missed it during the last performance because I was drinking backstage.
– Quoted songs on both my MySpace and Facebook profiles on a regular basis.
– Managed to repulse women constantly.
Reads like a scumbag’s resume. That me deserves a Mike Tyson right-hook.
Where do I even start with this piece of shit. From the get-go during my freshman year I was so obnoxious that I almost derailed any chance I had at making friends with my teammates. My first night hanging with the team I decided to list off all the other schools I was considering playing at, you know, like a dipshit. My good friend Brantley still says to this day, “Kyle, when I first met you, I fucking hated you.”
I also couldn’t decide if I wanted to dress like a frat guy or baseball player, so I combined and took the worst of both, and dressed like an asshole.
Icing on the cake, during my first business calculus class (which I later had to drop due to poor attendance), I was discussing with a teammate the girl I was trying to hook up with. Unbeknownst to me, said girl was sitting in front of me, and never spoke to me again.
I hate freshman year me so much.
Took years off my life via alcohol intake, made questionable choices in terms of female acquaintances, and despite being an athlete who was forced into physical activity, was probably in the worst shape of my life. Twenty-one-year-old me had a fun year, but was a worthless, punchable human.
Twice during my quarter-century year, despite on the surface being a grown man, I failed to handle my alcohol in disastrous fashion, including the night following PGP’s “Saved By The Brunch.”
Factoring in that I audibly burped while on the phone with a client and shit my pants in front of my kid, at twenty-five I was generally just a shell of a fake adult who deserved some chin music.
It’s been a month and this version of me hasn’t been great. I’ve failed to close a deal and killed all the grass in my front yard. Not a good start.
Age 13. That kid sucked. .