Mondays have to be the evil spawn of Satan multiplied by infinity. I’d rather be sitting at home in my yoga pants seeing how many needles I can stick into my palm before screaming uncle than functioning on a Monday morning in an elementary school. All the bold primary colors spiral out of control, causing my head to pound and ache and not even coffee can control the vortex of pain.

“How was your morning?” Scout asks, throwing her Lean Cuisine into the microwave.

“Like a donkey’s farting asshole, you?”

“I teach fifth grade; it always smells like farts in my room.”

“True dat,” I mumble riffling through the newspapers scattered on the table in the teacher’s lounge.

Who in the hell even reads the paper anymore? I look up to the other professionals in the staff lounge, three of whom probably taught Fred and Barney how to print with a chisel into stone. They carry flip-phones and still use an overhead projector for every single lesson.

Absentmindedly, I stare at Mr. Voulch, the fourth grade teacher, and wonder if, in his prime, he was the shit. I mean, like real cool and legit and all that snazz. My vision scans over his bolo tie and I take a minute to admire the glossy tan stone in the center of it. The green stain on his white button up shirt assaults my vision and I stare at it like there’s no tomorrow. Is that a boogery snot stain or pea soup?

I clutch to Scout’s arm, pulling her long torso down to me, so I can whisper in her ear. “I’m going to be Mr. Voulch.”

“Uh?” She turns to me.

“He’s never been married right?”

“That’s the word on the street,” Scout replies.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” she asks, pulling her meal out and prancing to the table, not letting her hand get burned by the edges of the hot plastic tray.

I settle next to her, pulling out my peanut butter and jelly and continue to whisper like a ninja.

“That’s going to be me. Just look at him. Teaching and never been married and for fuck’s sake, look at that stain on his shirt.”

“You’d wear a bolo tie?”

“Jesus, Scout that’s all you got out of that?” I flop my head down on the table and hold back from pounding my forehead on it. “I’m a virgin and hopeless.”

“Mr. Voulch.” I hear Scout’s voice. “Do you own a Yorkie?”

“No.” The sound of paper rustling goes off and then no further conversation.

“See, you’re fine, champ. He doesn’t own a Yorkie. All is clear.”

“I guess I’ll go on the date Saturday.”

“I know. Already told Taylor you would. How am I supposed to teach fifth graders who are just coming into their hormones Geometry? Fuck my life.”

“Have you and Taylor had sex?”

“Jesus, Geometry to sex, O. Get a grip.”

“You’re going to think O, Scout. My damn name is Olivia Olander and I live in Ontario, Oregon and teach at Oregon Trail in room one, so yes, I just did switch the damn topic.”

“Have you used that toy I bought you?” Scout raises both of her eyebrows up.

“No, the fucker scared me and I tossed it right back into the package.”

“It has a ten volt battery that will zap you into next year.”

“I just want a man and the O.”

“Quit being so desperate, O, you’re too cute for it.”

“I’m Asian.” I slump back down on the table.

“And that matters because?”

“Because I want to be Barbie,” I joke.

“But you have slanted eyes and cute dimples.”

“You’re right, but I want a man like Jillian has and I want her SUV and picket fence and baby bump.” The lunch bell goes off and I stand up. “Oh, and the infinite amount of Os Douglas has given her.”

“Douglas has a small dick. I nearly chipped my front tooth on his pelvic bone when blowing him our junior and then he got warts our senior year. That shit’s like diamonds…forever. No need to be jealous. Hike those titties up and go teach phonics to the future of our country.”

“So inspirational, fuckface,” I say a bit louder than intended, while throwing my stuff away.

“You two need a good whipping and about a year’s worth of church.”

We both turn to Mrs. Jackard, the kindergarten teacher and preacher’s wife, and smile.

“God bless,” I say before slamming the door to the staff room.

I’m off to save the day, one alphabet and peepee dance at a time.

Dear Diary,

Just another day down. Living the American dream with my Yorkie and…Shit, my life sucks, so I’ll keep this shit real.

Love, O