I’m not one to hold a grudge. Politically speaking, I can usually work my way past any scandal.

There was the whole White House intern thing, which to me was no more than a speed bump. Hilary’s email ordeal hit a nerve, but eventually, I put it behind me. Had I been old enough to be cognizant of current events during Watergate, I’m sure it would’ve rolled off my back like a tube of wiretapped Chapstick.

But there’s one scandal from February of last year that I just can’t seem to shake.

Kamala, what’s the deal with the whole Tupac/Snoop thing?

In case you’re too busy or smart to keep up with the slashing and burning of the media, Sen. Kamala Harris, while pushing her agenda for legal marijuana in California, found herself under scrutiny when she claimed to have smoked a joint in college while listening to Snoop Dogg and Tupac Shakur–even though the West Coast rappers didn’t come out until years after her graduation.

A fact check on LeadStories.com. defends that she didn’t specifically say during the interview that she listened to their music while in college. Still, this particular skeleton in her closet reeks. You can mess with homeland security, family values and election integrity. But a full year and a half later, Tupac/Snoopgate leaves a bad aftertaste.

I’m trying to overcome it, because I want to like Kamala. I admire any woman brave enough to smash through the glass ceiling headfirst with no helmet.

First we have to see the irony here. As most politicians have tried to conceal or play down their drug use back in their day, Kamala seems to be playing hers up. There was one thing she made perfectly clear: she did inhale. But I’m not sure I’m taking her word for it.

Bear with me for a moment while I take you back to 1986, the same year Kamala graduated from Howard University. I was an eighth-grader at Vogel Junior High School in Torrington, Connecticut. The time of day that I looked forward to most was dismissal, but not because I disliked school. It was because that was when the buses full of Torrington High School students would pull up like a motorcade to pick up us seventh and eighth-graders. In the back of one particular bus, en route to Highland Avenue, was Billy Rinaldi, whose black curls, smile and wave from his window would make me choke on my own heartbeat.

There were no two kids more wrong for each other than Billy and me. He was from what my friends and I affectionately coined the “burnout crowd.” I rolled with the honors kids. Billy wore a jean jacket with an Iron Maiden patch ironed on the back. I wore cat shoes with whiskers jutting from their toes. Billy attended keg parties at a clearing in the woods which his friends dubbed “The Fort.” I hung out in my friends’ living rooms binge-eating Doritos and watching The Breakfast Club. Billy was dangerous. I was hooked.

Because we were so different, and because I couldn’t risk losing his interest, the last thing I could be was myself. I could never admit to him that I had no idea what beer tasted like or that I’d never attended (or been invited to, no less) a keg party. I pretended to like his death-metal thrash bands, when in actuality, they made the whiskers on my cat shoes recoil.

Every time the phone rang after I got home from school, I had a whole set-up on the ready. There was an Iron Maiden tape that I copied (I don’t recall where I got a hold of the original), and I pointed my stereo system toward my phone, whose cord wasn’t long enough to reach the speaker. Every time the phone rang, I cut off Bon Jovi and hit the play button on Bruce Dickinson (whose historical references and powerhouse vocals I now appreciate), then casually answered. Of course, seeing how there was no caller ID, everyone got a dose of it, from my grandmother to my parents’ co-workers to Dr. McKenna’s office calling to confirm an appointment.

But anyway, back to Kamala. I have a feeling what really happened was that she was nursing an O’Doul’s hangover with a glass of tomato juice and a good book while lip syncing Whitney Houston into a hairbrush. And suddenly, she’s relatable.

And so after an agonizing eighteen months, I’m moving on. It’s time for the country to heal. Kamala, you’ve got one free pass, along with some parting words of advice.

Touch one hair on Jon Bon Jovi’s head, and it’s over.