My bully is dead. Allow me to clarify. This was not my personal bully that carried out nefarious deeds at my behest. No, I’m going back quite a few years to my high school days. I was actually fortunate. I had 3 bullies to choose between to pick on me. And why not? I can’t really blame them. I was about 5’2″, barely over 100 lbs., and looked like about 10 years old as I entered 9th grade as a high school freshman. I was perfect bully bait. If I was bigger, I would have picked on myself.

I may overstate how much I got bullied. I never got beat up or seriously hurt, except maybe psychologically to the point where I have to work out my issues decades later through strange blog posts. But I do recall being called names, books knocked down, and a few uncomfortable headlocks.

By the time my 10 year high school reunion came around, I was a grown ass man almost a foot taller and many pounds heavier. Okay, I wasn’t heavily muscled, but I was in shape and carried myself well and confidently, especially after a couple beverages. I had my sights set for revenge on one of the bullies who was more of the name-caller and mental bully. I can’t recall how I knew he would be there, but I was gunning for him, without any guns, of course.

And then I saw him. He was not how I expected him to be. I almost immediately abandoned my plans to spill hot coffee on him. Here’s why …

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