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Dear Math Teacher

Here’s the difference between me and you, Math Teacher. 

I flaunt my power, but I don’t lord it. I don’t saw away at the egos and emotions of students, trying to stifle them with numbers and superiority. Guess what? Not going to work on this girl. I won’t be cramped by your stupid little formulas and your stupid little voice.

You sit at the front of a cramped and quietly miserable classroom like a toad, delighted to be conducting class at 8 a.m., munching on a breakfast of sour-cream-and-cheddar Ruffles you bought from the vendor in the lobby. I see your grease thumb prints on the handouts you distribute. Don’t you think it’s hard enough for me to understand this stuff without the distraction of your oily evidence?

If I could plug numbers into formulas the way I can fit words into sentences, I wouldn’t have to sit in your tiny airless room and listen to you. So now, every time I get impatient with someone who needs MY help, I’m going to think of your stupid tent-sized, sea-monster-green blouse.



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