I leave angry. I leave empty. I leave frustrated.
But I was given some cake and ice cream in a hapless gesture of goodwill. Oh
and a card. A Going Away card. A "Get the fuck out of here" card. The
meaningless cardboard of a meaningless existence ...
I have just completed another empty job for another empty employer.
Wondering if what I did amounted to any good??
It is just another bullshit thing; another –finished- contract -with -a
–bunch- of shitty speadsheets -imported-into –PowerPoint- accompanied –by-
the -necessary crappy -color -graphs.
I empty my desk, collect my memorabilia and think about stealing some more
office supplies - as I cram some of those really good pens into my gym bag -
it hits me.
I ... get ... to ... leave.
I really get to leave without being fired, and they feel bad for letting me
go.
Emanci-fucking-pation.
It’s like a relationship with the lover you loathe and she says, "Could we
still be friends"? But better. Guilt free abandonment as I wonder if I could
negotiate the color printer into my gym bag, too.
No more of the petty office territorial politics.
No more interoffice memos via email.
No more idiot meeting over bullshit posturing.
No more of the weekend grind of having to "catch up on the project".
No more dry cleaning to be picked up. No more neckties!
No more being held hostage by an inept network services department that can’t
fucking install a damned color printer.
No more idiot Building Maintenance personnel that keeps the office temp
either so hot you’d swear it was the surface of Mercury facing the sun.
Or so frigid that you need a parka, a team of dogs to stay warm.
Not to mention the open ceiling tiles where I hoped that none of the
fiberglass wafts its way into my morning coffee.
No, none of that ... all over ... fuck ‘em.
In the immortal words of Dennis Miller while he was on Saturday Night Live.
I am Out of Here.
I stuff more writing pads into my bag and walk out humming the Soup Dragons.
