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An Open Letter To My Second Grade Crush: I'm A Changed Man

To my second grade crush, Alysa:

First of all, I may or may not still have feelings for you. Wherever you are right now, stop what you're doing and listen to “Marvin's Room” — and think of me.

Secondly, you realize that the name “Alyssa” is spelled with two s's, right? Seriously, spell check LITERALLY has a red line underneath Alysa as I type it. But, kudos to your parents for saying f*ck it, all the same.

Anyway, I've been thinking about you recently. You know, with it being #TBT and all, I get rather — I don't know — nostalgic on Thursdays. I want you to know that I've changed a lot from those elementary school years. Sure, the tips of my bangs are no longer dyed blonde, or flipped up like a f*cking “tidal wave” in the front of my scalp.

I hope this poses itself as a good thing in your eyes. I mean, if not, I'm sure we could discuss having that done again, if you ever gave me a second chance.

Dead-tookus, I've got some bleach lying around the house — I just did the “whites” portion of my laundry last night. But, the fact of the matter is, I've changed a lot as a man, too.

I hope you're not still sour about that in-class incident, the one where you lost utter faith in me as a 7-year-old boy (granted, it was extra-f*cking-sour apple).

The truth is, before I licked up half that Ring Pop, and stuck it in your hair — I really meant to give it to you — in the wrapper still, of course, as a show of affection. You know how the guys are, though, I was just trying to give the crew a laugh.

Like, c'mon, can you really blame me? Ms. Isaac was reading “The Giving Tree” out loud for the fourth time that week, I was just trying to break up the monotony. Peer pressure doesn't start with a little pot in high school, Alysa. I hope you can understand.

I'm a writer now. At least I try to be. I'm sure I could scribble up a love letter right this moment that would put my old, literally scribbled, notes to shame. In all fairness, I do my writing on a MacBook now, so the whole miscommunication over handwriting thing is no longer in play.

Sure, I know the index card I passed you back then, actually read, “hate you” — but, I swear, I just didn't connect the bottoms of my “d's” all that great, when I was 7. It really meant to say “date you.” I probably should've proofread it though, that's on me.

I guess I forgot the question mark, and the “can I” part. If only Ms. Isaac stressed the importance of “subjects” and “correct punctuation” in sentences, instead of a third encore of “The Giving Tree.” But, hey, you can't win 'em all.

Call me crazy (it's been done before), but I think you should take a page from the book of “The Giving Tree.” Not literally, Alysa.

I don't want you to physically rip a page out of that book; frankly, I hope you never have to see that book for the remainder of your days left on this planet (that sounded grim, I hope you have many days left on this planet).

I mean it philosophically, like, what would the Giving Tree do? You wanna know the answer? The Giving Tree would, almost certainly, give me another chance. After all, it's the f*cking Giving Tree we're talking about here.

All that big, majestic piece of wood did was give, and give, and give, to other people. Sh*t, that sounded really sexual — I didn't mean it like that. Unless you liked that statement… then maybe I did. All right, I'll stop now.

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Dan Scotti


Dan Scotti holds down the role of a Lifestyle Writer at Elite Daily. He was born and raised on Long Island, where he learned to avoid small talk with people, and graduated from Binghamton.
Dan Scotti holds down the role of a Lifestyle Writer at Elite Daily. He was born and raised on Long Island, where he learned to avoid small talk with people, and graduated from Binghamton.

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