I'm going to f**k 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 last month. Daddy's lawyer made the charges vanish—because that's what lawyers do when you pay them enough—but Mom insisted on "accountability." Which apparently means fifty-min
