Rebel, sans clue

By the time I reached high school, I used to cut class more days than not. I almost flunked my senior year for failing to achieve minimal attendance. At the time, I thoroughly believed I was sticking it to The Man. You see, I was really angry at The Man. The Man, for example, wanted everyone to attend pep rallies and clap when the dumb asshole football players who'd been drinking liquor cabinet mixtures under the bleachers earlier that morning cross-dressed as cheerleaders, and staggered around grabbing at each others' bras stuffed with sport socks.

At 17, I felt such antics were part of a vast fascist conspiracy against my happiness, and so I spent a lot of time glowering under a willow tree in an adjacent park, sticking pins into a virtual Man in my mind. At the time, it did not occur to me that The Man didn't really care whether I attended classes or not, and meanwhile, I was failing to obtain a basic education, and slowly becoming one of those people who can't name the three branches of government in those occasional surveys illustrating the deep ignorance of average Americans.

Did I pass this test just now? Did The Man learn his lesson when I refused to attend history class in 1988? The answer to both questions might sadly be no.