Dear Mr. Jeffries,
I’m your student, Adam Harrison. I have guidance class with you third period on Thursdays. I say “student” because I can’t think of another word that fits, but you are not my teacher. You are my guidance counselor, and I am writing you to communicate one simple message: back the fuck off.
I’ll keep this quick, because thanks in part to your killer instincts, I guess I have A.D.D., so I probably won't be able to focus for long anyway. Thanks for that enjoyable chapter in my life, by the way. Good thing my family are a bunch of feel-good neo-hippies like you, they’re really supporting me through this awful disease. Also, no they’re not. Now when my Dad calls me a “retard”, I think he really means it.
I didn’t know what to do when I was struck with the symptoms of “not wanting to do my homework” and “having trouble paying attention to bullshit about Napoleon for 50 minutes” and “wanting to bang everything” – but fortunately you had the answer: Put me on pills and start some extra mentoring! At least I make some cash selling the pills, so thanks, I guess.
Anyway, the main point of this letter is to formally request that you stop trying to tell me what to do with my life. I am 17. No one knows what they want to do. I know you think maybe some kids do, but that’s bullshit. Those are the kids who have agreed to go along with whatever their parents have decided they should do. My father has simply decided he wants me to get the hell out of his house when I graduate, but I’m not sure how well that pays. Do you follow me?
You had me take a standardized test the other day that recommended I would be a fine Park Ranger, or maybe a lawyer. Who came up with this test? I’m not huge on the outdoors, and I don’t know much, but I know I don’t want to be a lawyer. And how the hell are those jobs even related? Are park rangers and lawyers cut from the same cloth in your mind? That's some bullshit, man.
Look, just leave me alone. I will still come to guidance class on Thursdays, but don’t talk to me. And our “progress sessions” on Mondays are over. They’re done. Unless you want to just let me come to your office and take a breather. No bullshit about college, careers, my family, nothing. Just let me take a little break. From what? My life. I am a 17 year old boy. I am assuming you were 17. Do you remember that? I’ll remind you: it’s like being on steroids all day, except if that in addition to zits everywhere, hair everywhere, aches, etc., steroids made you a chronic masturbator with braces. Oh yeah, I forgot the crippling rage. There's that, too. Man, how could I not be pumped to learn shit all day?
In closing, I am in no mood to discuss my future with you. I don’t care that “Mandarin is the language of the future” or that “computer programming skills will always be in demand.” I am 17. Tell you what; should I ever decide to give up on life, I’ll ask you how I can become a guidance counselor.