There are eight Michael Green’s in our phonebook.

Each one got a letter from me.

Only one knows what the hell it was for.

On the first day of public high school my freshman year, he made me stand up in front of the entire English Class.

What does your shirt mean?

Rage Against the Machine?

What does that mean?

It’s a band.

Little girl, I think before you wear a statement like that, you damn well better know what it means.

And then I sat down.

And cried.

I hated Mr. Green.

That was my boyfriend’s shirt, and he was a skater, so I think he would know a little bit more about music than some stupid old man.

I never wore that shirt again though.

Part because I didn’t want to be made an example of again, and part because the boy dumped me.

Fact.  Not every girl likes oral sex when she is trying to watch 90210.

I was eighteen, when I had Mr. Green again.

He had asked me to stay after class to watch him grade my final English essay.

I don’t like watching people read what I write, in case they don’t react appropriately in all the right places.

Besides, I watched Lifetime.  I knew what this meant.

What bra did I have on today?

Not a cute one.

I woke up late.

My mom keeps confiscating my good bras, and leaving me with the boring lined ones so people can’t see your nipples.

Shit.

Ok, Brittany, let’s think.  What are you going to be willing to do here for an A?  Special skills.  I’m a really good dancer.  Not Footloose, good, but I know my way around some Montell Jordan.   I’m partially psychic.   I’ve killed three rabbits with my car.   I can tell when light bulbs are about to burn out.

Fuck, none of these things are going to help me right now.

Brittany, what have you decided you are going to do.  What will you be?

A teacher.

Really?

Yes.

You’re stupid.

What?  I don’t?

You need to write.

But, I’m going to school to be a teacher.

Why do you want to be a teacher?

I don’t know.  The teacher’s lounge seems fun.  I like making bulletin boards.

You’re making a huge mistake.

You got an A.

Years later.  After college classes I hated.  Mind numbing jobs.  Bosses who can blow me.

He was fucking right.

It’s the only thing that makes me happy.

So, I wanted to tell him.

I wrote eight letters out by hand, and mailed them to each Michael Green in the phone book.

That was two years ago.

Andy keeps telling me to forget it.

I’m still totally looking for him.

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