Wordsmoker

Fifty fucking years. Fiftieth fucking high school reunion. Sixty-seventh birthday. All in one week. Early August. No, it doesn’t bother me at all. Hardly think about it, actually.

So here are a couple of observations. The one of least significance is that most of the guys I went to high school with stayed in pretty good shape, and — this was surprising — hardly drank or didn’t drink at all.

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