An Open Letter To Math

Dear Math,

Today I am done with you. I completed my final mathematics exam for my college Applied Mathematics for Social and Management Sciences class not three hours ago. We’re through. Your things are on the front stoop.

I’ve put up with a lot from you. I’ll admit, it’s partly my fault because I was fooled by how blissful the honeymoon period was. Being asked to tutor other math students in seventh grade when we began algebra, hugged and high-fived by teachers who loved how neat my handwriting was (I can still write fractions very clearly in only one line of notebook paper, in case you forgot), being asked to take AP Calculus AB my junior year of high school, assuming I would then take BC senior year and earn enough credits to never have to take a math class again in college…

It was all a facade. Empty promises. An empty trunk of withered promises. An empty, decrepit, black AND brown widow spider-infested trunk with saggy, ghost-like, grey and black promises draped on the outside of it. You never told me that calculus was going to be hard.

You knew when we met that I wanted to be in show business. You knew I would have rehearsal every day after school my junior year because I had climbed my way up the high school theatre department ladder to STAGE MANAGER. So why did you introduce integrals into the picture?

No, no, leave me alone. I know you made things better for a few months with Statistics. You always make that argument. We had a lot of fun with box-and-whisker plots. It felt like paradise. Sure, you maybe saw a crazier, more brazen side of me with our nights of passionate confidence intervals in Puerta Vallarta. But I think we were deluding ourselves. We need to face reality.

You’re a mean, little, merciless man. You’re short and acne-ridden. English is a tall, dark-haired, elegantly quaffed wealthy boy wearing a cardigan who opens doors for me. History is the same except he has a beard. You and Science can go watch your Sunday football games at your gross apartment from now on. Not in my house anymore. And don’t even THINK about bringing that imbecile Physics around ever again. He tried to feel me up under the table last Thanksgiving.

Those last two years of high school were the most trying of our time together. The ease of a giant college lecture format made me temporarily forget your selfishness. But now that I’ve finished this last exam – which had a very unfair question about domains on it, by the way (you think I don’t notice these little things, BUT I DO! Like when you don’t clean up your orange peels from the counter) – I’m a stronger person.

I know myself now. If I have to thank you for anything, it’s that I learned a lot about how much I’d rather analyze the veiled greedy intentions behind the trading of Suez Canal than try to solve you.

You’re gonna have to go solve yourself from now on. Or get that slut in our building, Biomedical Engineering, to solve you. I heard that she solves everybody. Use protection.

Sincerely,

Liz

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