Dear High School Crush,

First of all, let me preface this letter by saying: OMG! (Please read that Alicia Silverstone in Clueless style, if, by chance you remember that movie. And why wouldn't you? It was genius.) Okay, OMG! I saw you at Chipotle with some other girl from High School (who I was actually friends with in the 8th grade but we're too cool to speak to each other now) and you look HORRIBLE. I mean, you look the same, which is kind of a compliment so... you know, you're welcome, but gosh! what was I thinking back then?

Okay, I'll tell you exactly what I was thinking. When I was sixteen, I was really into obscurity. I mean like, the weirder the better. I didn't want to listen to any band that played on the radio or watch the movie Titanic (even though there was nothing wrong with it... I saw it some time later,) or vote in the student council elections or do anything else that more than three people were doing. I would purposely search out the most indie-st of indie bands and hurry up and buy their t-shirt and wear it to school before anyone else could ask me if I had their CD. It was my thing. And I was so into you because you were pretty obscure yourself. And I know that everybody had a crush on you, too but you acted like you couldn't give a piss and that was totally righteous to me. I mean, did you brush your hair one time during those four years? Just wondering, you know, because.. it didn't ever look like it. And the suitcase you carried around? A suitcase! instead of a Jansport backpack. What an intrepid idea.

So, okay, I'll admit that it was preeeeeeettttty silly of me to write you that poem for your graduation. Wait. Scratch that. It was pretty awesome of me to write you a poem for your graduation, I just wish the poem would have been better. I was only a sophomore and I was getting just used to my impressive vocabulary so I had to use like, every four-syllable word I could think of. Sorry. Further to my defense, Suzanne made me give you the poem otherwise she was gonna tell you that I spent all of first hour writing it and I just decided that it would better for me to flex nuts and hand it to you then to hide from anyone who knew you after she told you about my raging two-year crush that I spent so much time trying to conceal. (Because, you know... I needed to be obscure.)

But none of that really matters some four years later when I see you at the Chipotle with What's Her Face and you're eating what is most certainly a CARNITAS BURRITO. A.) Shouldn't you be a vegetarian, or something? I thought that all poets/writers/musicians/artists were. B.) You could have made a better choice on your shirt. Like, remember in the Spring of 2001 when I saw you in the hallway and you were wearing a shirt that you had written "SMASH CAPITALISM" on with a Sharpie? I'm pretty sure that pearl snap button down you're sporting is from The Gap. Not that I have anything against The Gap, it's just that I'm certain that YOU did. C.) What are you still doing in town? Shouldn't you be abroad, taking lovers and writing memoirs? I had much bigger plans for you, High School Crush, I really did.

(And the biggest cake-taker of all cake-taking things is the perverted messages you leave my friends on Facebook. Hello. Have you ever heard of a text message? It is the preferred method of communication for booty-calls.)

But anyway, the point of this letter isn't to scathe, I just wanted to know if I could have my poem back, please? (I know you probably have it wedged in your yearbook.) You see, I wrote that poem for someone too obscure for a fast food chain, no matter how noble the attempt of said fast food chain at an edgy aesthetic. I wrote that poem for someone who would one day fall in love with me because I alone knew the lyrics to the Elvis Costello song he had just forgotten. I spent the entire first period (during finals week, mind you) writing an embarrassing, exposing poem for someone who wrote columns in the school newspaper that inspired me to get a tattoo, to ask out that boy who was in my American History class freshman year of college, to perform that ridiculous rap song with Suzanne at the Winter Workshop junior year. I wrote that poem for someone who reminded me of what I imagine Paul Rudd is like in real life, should I have the great fortune to meet him. Not for some el duderino at Chipotle four years later that I would have walked by and not even noticed had it not been for me recognizing ol'What's Her Face from 8th grade Communications class.

I don't really remember too much of the poem... I know it started with some confession about how I loved Fridays because it meant that I got to read your column in the paper, but I'm pretty sure it was better than I credit it. Acutally, now that I think of it, it was probably pretty darn good considering all that time I spent reading obscure poets and essayists. (Don't worry about the spelling of that last word, I already wikipedia'd it. I also wikipedia'd "wikipedia'd" and it turns out that it's not a word, much to my disgruntlement. Four-syllable word!) Anyway, just give it back and I'll hold on to it, just in case Paul Rudd ever decides to visit his hometown and I run into HIM at the Chipotle on 87th street.

Please and thank you,
Kayla