Confessions of a Millennial Misanthrope

Before I escaped from the trendy predations of my local sink school, I plastered my geography teacher in chocolate milk. It was a triumph of Olympian dexterity—the open bottle of Yazoo clipped the ceiling tiles above Mr. Bowler’s head, showering him in sticky milk. That was the last I saw of Mr. Bowler.

My fourth (or fifth) psychologist, a chlorinated waif named Louie, deemed my delinquency to be ‘challenging behaviour.’ To Louie, the milkshake was the Molotov of the unheard. After riffling through Carl Rogers, Louie decreed: “Unstable, angry, medicated, low self-esteem.”