So He Won’t Break

I begin to ponder, idly, what exactly has lead to me here to my position of benevolent overlord over a couple hundred twelve year olds, give or take some older tweens in the sixth period. This seems to be a rather short and mostly depressing reminiscence, so I’ve already skimmed through the most recent message in my inbox (for lack of anything better to do) when the connecting door swings open.

“Do kids just think ‘sent from my iPhone’ is an automated sign-off? Because this kid actually followed it with a comma and— holy shit, Charles, you’re bleeding,”