I'm going to fuck my therapist.

I decided that approximately twenty minutes into our first session, somewhere between him asking about my "relationship with authority figures" and me noticing the way his fingers gripped his pen when I crossed my legs.

Is that bad? Probably.

Do I care? Not even a little.

Let me back up.

My name is Sloane Whitmore, I'm nineteen years old, and I'm sitting in a therapist's office because my parents are rich assholes who think throwing money at problems makes them disappear. The problem, in this case, being me getting caught with a fake ID and a gram of coke at some Delta Sig party...