by Jordan Berardi

Dear Math,

This is a hate letter. I really don’t know why you have to be so challenging and ridiculous. You’re always testing me. You are disrespectful to my GPA. You build me up by thinking I’ve done well on one of your tests, then you laugh in my face when you tear me down and I see my actual grade.

Nothing about you makes me happy. You used to be such a simple thing, like a baby. Your baby days were perfect, you were adorable and cuddly. You were all about addition and subtraction. I babysat you daily in primary school. I really just understood you and how you worked.

Then the multiplication timed tests came along and I began to hate you. That was your terrible twos. That’s when I hated you, but I still had hope. I felt like most mothers feel during their child’s early annoying years. I definitely still had faith that you would stop giving me trouble…regardless of the fact that I was the last one in the entire fifth grade to complete my multiplication timed tests.

Then high school came along. You became mean, manipulative, harsh, crazy, annoying, crummy, appalling, dreadful, evil, disagreeable, despicable, rotten, pesky, nasty, loathsome, wicked and vile. I no longer had hope for you, in fact, you ruin everything. At this point, you’re a downright rude person who has no hope of turning their image around in my head. I gave you so many chances. But you blew it.

I should’ve known. I shouldn’t have let you break my heart like you did. I shouldn’t let you ruin my days. I knew you were trouble when you walked in, so shame on me now. No. Remix. Shame on you for being annoying. I really don’t like you. You’re the source of my nightmares.

Should I wait to publish this until after I take your test today? Nah, it probably won’t change anything anyway. You’re relentless.

Sincerely (with hate),

Short Stack