Spoiled Brat Meets Antisocial Personality
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"Do you know who runs this wealthy neighborhood? Get the hell out of here, now!"
The HOA committee chairwoman shrieked, pointing her finger right at my nose. Her twelve-year-old chubby son was gleefully smashing my custom furniture worth over a hundred thousand dollars with a baseball bat, his face lit up with excitement.
I looked at the wreckage scattered across the floor, sighed, then reached into my drawer and pulled out that copy of "How to Be a Normal Person" I'd been studying for three years. I threw it into the trash and put on my antisocial manic personality disorder ID badge instead.
"You're absolutely right, ma'am." I took off my jacket, loosened my tie, and turned my gaze toward the basement at the end of the hallway—the one filled with heavy industrial equipment. "In a community that only speaks the language of power, perhaps we should indeed use some more efficient methods of communication."
The HOA committee chairwoman shrieked, pointing her finger right at my nose. Her twelve-year-old chubby son was gleefully smashing my custom furniture worth over a hundred thousand dollars with a baseball bat, his face lit up with excitement.
I looked at the wreckage scattered across the floor, sighed, then reached into my drawer and pulled out that copy of "How to Be a Normal Person" I'd been studying for three years. I threw it into the trash and put on my antisocial manic personality disorder ID badge instead.
"You're absolutely right, ma'am." I took off my jacket, loosened my tie, and turned my gaze toward the basement at the end of the hallway—the one filled with heavy industrial equipment. "In a community that only speaks the language of power, perhaps we should indeed use some more efficient methods of communication."