The word problem spelled backwards is melborp.  An antonym for problem is solution.  Since I coined the word, I suggest that a melborp is a solution that doesn't work.
     In 1993, after I'd undergone a prolonged period of personal chaos, my father suggested, after careful consideration, that I should attend a local technical college; that learning skills with computers might get me a decent job.  I began attending in January 1994, sat through classes I didn't comprehend, struggled with homework I often couldn't finish without help from my computer-savvy older brother.  One day, driving home from class, I spun out on an icy four lane street, crossed the median, and rammed my Ford Fairmont Futura (the Car of the Future) into a tall snowbank.  My arc drew its lines between jumbles of traffic far out ahead of me and behind me.  Embedded deep, I had to gun the engine in reverse to withdraw from the snow wall.  My next thought, a non-sequitur, as I drove home with rattled nerves, suggested I wasn't cut out for professional computer work. 
     I took refuge in my bedroom after these classes, taking time to unwind from the unpleasantness of sitting in plastic chairs, with every student around me able to understand what was going on.  One young woman who sat behind me, Tracy (her actual first name), was beautiful, had long dark brown hair and wore round glasses.  I can still picture the gray soft sweater and form-fitting blue jeans she wore one day.  Apart from her, I remember only a few details about my time as a technical college student. 
     In April 1994 an old friend stopped by for a visit after being out of town for a long while.  I was still a student.  I told him about my desire to quit school.  We bought two six packs at a nearby liquor store and sat on the porch discussing at length the recent suicide of Kurt Cobain, a rather freaky thing for people of our generation to contemplate, at the time.  Within a day of my friend's visit, I decided not to go to school, not because of anything he said.  I simply slipped into a well-greased slacker role, my mind committing itself to the quick and temporary pleasure of no commitment.  I had a job all through my technical college experience, but I got an additional one a few weeks after I ended my student days, continuing with my usual role in society as intellectual with non-intellectual occupations.
     My father's suggested solution to my personal chaos of 1993 was the discipline of learning a trade at the technical college.  It seemed like a sensible idea for a while, especially before I started classes, but the experience turned into a melborp.

                                                                            Vic Neptune