Millennial entitlement performs quite the riddle. Sitting in an senior, HDPE-embossed swiveling seat boasts reality. Stagnant we stay in a bask of fluorescent marbles for the betterment of a pseudonym. Eight hours a day. Five days a week. Two thousand eighty hours a year. Minimum. That. is. life. That. is. normal. That. is. expected. Without question. Authored by a missing pen. Absently controlled by a named power. Stray? Label: entitled. Definition: rejection of obligatory “maturation” in attempt to package a pinky around the untold circumference circling what a life is worth. Break the norm; you’re alone. Goodbye parents. Goodbye monetary necessity. Hello beaming enlightenment on the cyclical trap American capitalism caps on existence. Our misery runs product of popularized media disenfranchisement. We’re not a phenomenon; we’re 20s. We’re deliberately lost and controversially confused in a massing sea of networks purloined of a proper path. We run right; we run left. The labyrinth zips deeper and wider with each foot printed into placid pavement. The map dilates as each shoe designs the texture of our collective floor. More turns; more creeks; more potholes clacking at a potential misstep. Trip, and the mere millennial is shipped splat on stone ridged ground. Pebbles be damned; the stone is spiked. Face down, spikes speculatively imprint into recently acne-ridden skin, marking the length of the traitorous journey labeled as self-discovery. Resilience be banned. The stone sinks deeper, craning its soiled claw to clamp a dot of young blood. Blood too immature to be dejected from a crisp body. A body just ripe enough to soak in worldly poisons. Poisons trailing the soil that feeds our deep mouths. A body too benign to digest persevering impediments.