The chaos recoiled. Bob the star dimmed. The bottomless pit of couches became a shallow bowl of mildly uncomfortable stools. Professor Helix’s bowtie snapped straight. Patricia began handing out syllabi. The horror.
The curriculum was fluid. In Period One (Spontaneous Combustion for Fun and Profit), a girl named Eliza accidentally sneezed and created a small, self-aware star. It named itself Bob. Bob demanded a desk and a juice box. The headmaster, a wizened racoon in a bathrobe who spoke only in interpretive dance, granted the request. school of chaos classic
The School of Chaos Classic never graduated a single student. Because graduation implies an end, and chaos, dear reader, is a circle. A wobbly, giggling, gravity-optional circle. The lessons learned there cannot be written down, because paper tends to fold itself into paper airplanes and fly away. The chaos recoiled
The great crisis came on a Thursday. A transfer student from a strict, orderly school arrived. Her name was Perfect Patricia. She carried a ruler, a schedule, and a withering glare. She sat in the back and raised her hand. “This isn’t a school,” she said. “It’s a disaster.” Professor Helix’s bowtie snapped straight