Searching the pages of my $105 math book, I plead with the numbers and letters to make sense to me. Hour after hour, I sit dumbfounded by this foreign language in which everyone else seems to be fluent. Semester after semester my mind stagnates as my toosh takes the form of a two-dollar chair. Ignorant of reality, I come to class hoping that the Olympian figure presiding over my world of math would make me his oracle. But, over the course of the semester, this Olympian was unmasked, revealing instead a Dr. Frankenstein who replaced my half-functioning brain with partially-set Jell-O.
Not intending to leave the best for last, math is what I have left to reach my simple goal of graduating. I have traveled a long road, and now I know there is no avoiding it. I will face the fear of all fears, I will challenge the most ruthless opponent, and I will stare confusion once more in the eye. I will cry like a baby. I will take math. Once again my nostrils burn, my stomach churns and I sit willingly, waiting for the devourer of all devourers to destroy my very existence. I have found the easiest way to feel like an idiot. But the Jell-O has helped me come to the realization that if you want to live an educated life, math comprehension is crucial — and that that rodent Albert Einstein can rot in Hades.