There is a letter in her own hand, the script strangely like my own. It is polite and friendly, skirting the danger she must have felt when posting it in front of her father as she passed him at  the front porch letterbox.

There is the box of simple cookies ( baked under his supervision for the church luncheon) that never made it to the fellowship hall. She packed them in a leftover Christmas tin with bright Santas and snowmen and tucked a paper dollie inside as if to say, "See how…

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The thing about secret admirer's is, they seem to be utterly

selfless in the pursuit of their fancy, don't they?



I mean, if they truly are secret, what do they actually get out

of the infatuation, this secret admiration?



I had one once, and the only evidence was a pretty watercolor

poster of a young woman with her cat.



It was noticed, the young woman looked quite a lot… Continue

"Why do you hate me so much?" asked Mr. Bosillo, a 27 year-old Algebra teacher at Young Junior High. We were alone in his classroom, discussing a pencil drawing of him and the physical science teacher, Ms. Stephens, a tall nervous Chihuahua sporting giant bug glasses and bluish-black Cleopatra hair.

Mr. Bosillo was my crush of 1979, a 5'7 slightly pudgy Italian with a thick mustache. I learned anything but Algebra in…

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