​Once upon a time there was a beautiful woman who always took beautiful selfies but the more selfies she took, the more she felt she wasn’t quite beautiful enough.  She decided one day she would be much more beautiful if only her lips looked fuller.  She plunked down some money and her lips were plumped up.  Now, that’s much better she thought.  She took a selfie and posted it on Facebook and hundreds of comments came pouring in on how gorgeous she was. 
 
But it wasn’t quite enough.  She would be much more beautiful if only her breasts were fuller.  She plunked down some money and her breasts perked like two giant cantaloupes.  Now, that’s much better she thought.  She took a selfie and posted it and hundreds of comments came pouring in on how sexy she was. 
 
Still, she knew she could be more beautiful if only her face looked more youthful, her eyebrows were lifted up, laugh lines erased, the mole on her forehead removed, the fat from her inner thighs sucked out, her butt lifted up, her stomach tightened and her waistline synched.  She plunked down the money and had it all done.  Now, that’s what it takes to be truly beautiful she thought.  She raised her phone to take a selfie.  Her face was red and puffy and wrapped in gauze.  Her butt hurt.  Her thighs hurt.  Her stomach hurt. She could not take a selfie like that.
 
She stayed in bed for several weeks.  Every morning, when the sun rose, she raised her phone to take a selfie.  Each time, she saw pain staring back at her and decided against it.  She would wait until she was truly beautiful.
 
One morning, the rain came down hard.  She positioned her phone over her face to see if it was time.  But still, she saw pain.  “Can pain be beautiful?” she thought.  She took the picture and posted it.  The hours passed and there were no comments.  Not even one like.  Something in her knew the answer to her question. She closed her blistering eyelids and listened to the rain tap dancing on her windowpane. 
 
 

​Atop a very big beautiful green hill sat a little red schoolhouse.  The teacher there was a very loving teacher indeed.  She had been a teacher right from the beginning.  She could remember playing school as a little girl in her basement, doing calculations, writing new words and new ideas with her chalk.  Her clothes would get all dusty and the chalk dust would make her sneeze and then it would be time to send her invisible students to lunch and recess.

Two decades later she had her very own real students at the little red schoolhouse.  She liked arriving early when it was still quiet.  A little before 9:00 am she would hear her students galloping up the hill, their footsteps along the wooden floors as they hung their jackets on hooks and then the soft bang as they laid out their books in readiness on top of their desks.  She was eager.  The students were eager.  And they dove in to the lesson traveling through history and literature and philosophy, investigating the wonders of the human body and the solar system. 

As the years went on, the red paint of the schoolhouse faded and it was repainted white.  The students stopped galloping and they trudged heavily.  Most students no longer hung their jackets for they were too cold.  Students switched on their laptops for books had become archaic. 

The little schoolhouse teacher still brushed her skirt with her hands before she began.  It was a habit from the old days of brushing off chalky residue.  Chalkboards had been replaced by whiteboards and then computerboards.  But she still brushed.  She did what she always did next: dove in with eagerness. But the students did not dive in with her.  Instead, the light from their screens cast an eerie glow over their faces.  The teacher asked a question from their reading, but received no answer.  She asked how the students were doing outside of school.  Still, no answer.  She asked what they were interested in.  Again, silence.  She asked if they would like to go on a field trip to explore the world around them.  They stared ahead like zombies.  Then, she saw a small movement: one student’s eyeball glanced at the digital time in the upper corner of his screen and the eyeball returned to center screen.  

 What were they staring at?  She wondered if they could see her at all.  She began to walk in front of her computerboard back and forth.  But not one eyeball followed her.  She kicked her leg up to her head.  Nothing.  She stamped her foot on the floor.  Still nothing.  She began to tap dance.  Nothing.  She got on her knees.  Nothing.  She got up on her desk and jumped off.  Nothing.  At last she threw herself down on the floor, looked up to the schoolhouse ceiling and let out the loudest scream she had ever screamed in her whole life.

 “Oh God!  Did that feel good!” she thought.  She began to laugh in relief.  She laughed and laughed and then laughed some more.  She laughed so hard her stomach hurt and tears poured down her cheeks.  And when her laughter had finally finished, she stood up. 

 The little white schoolhouse was empty.  There was an envelope with her name on it on top of her desk.  She opened it and read:

            “Thank you for your years of service to teaching at the little white schoolhouse on the hill.  We will be installing a robot teacher to increase efficiency in the dispensing of information.  Your services are no longer required.”

The teacher packed up her books and gathered her pencils together.  With her heavy teacher bag slung over one shoulder, she awkwardly walked down the hill.  Weighed down by her bag, she stumbled a little.  She giggled. Efficiency.  She giggled again. Dispensing information. She snorted.  And then she laughed at her own snorting. She laughed and laughed walking onward to where, she did not know.