Fiction or reality, as long as the theme is work, anything goes!

Gregory Burns Bridges!

As many of you are aware, today is my last day at the firm. It is time for
me to move on and I want you to know that I have accepted a position as
"Trophy Husband". This decision was quite easy and took little
consideration. However, I am confident this new role represents a welcome
change in my life and a step up from my current situation. While I have a
high degree of personal respect for P*** as a law firm, and I have made
wonderful friendships during my time here, I am no longer comfortable
working for a group largely populated by gossips, backstabbers and
Napoleonic personalities. In fact, I dare say that I would rather be
dressed up like a piñata and beaten than remain with this group any
longer.

I wish you continued success in your goals to turn vibrant, productive,
dedicated associates into an aimless, shambling group of dry, lifeless
husks.

May the smoke from any bridges I burn today be seen far and wide.

Respectfully submitted,

Gregory

AnyWorker, U.S.A. (thanks, Sidrabloodlust)

Here is the thing that really bites about my work experiences:
I have LOVED my jobs, but they didn't love me.

Why?
I've somehow managed to have 1 of two types of boss:
1. The Womanizer
2. The Alpha Female

In all my work experience, mostly as a web content developer, media
project manager, copy editor, and girl friday, I've had the most
ridiculously bad luck with bosses.
They either want to bed me, and are pissed if I don't return the
feeling, and find ways to set me up and fire me.
Or they somehow pose themselves as my competitor (usually female) and
see me as a threat, thereby doing what they can to set me up and fire
me.

I've even taken some of them to court. I won twice. I reported them to
the department of labor, got a lawyer, and tried to get justice for
their injustice.
NEVER has my firing been due to poor work performance or anything else
done on my part.

I have had professional counseling about this, open to the idea that
perhaps I'm doing something unconsciously to antagonize my bosses. My
therapist seems to think that I sniff out and find bosses that will
take advantage of me and abuse me. /shrug

What makes it really difficult for me at this time is that I have a
lot of skills and experience, but can hardly depend on any of my
former places of employ to provide a decent reference. Thus, I've been
in this vicious cycle of having to start at the bottom rung, only to
quickly get promoted when my talents and abilities are shown through
my work and attitude. Perhaps this is what pisses off my employer?
That I'm walking on toes or seeming to outshine others...? That I can
do more than my job position description and end up taking on more
duties and wearing more hats than those around me, inciting
resentments from many people?

I do not know.
But right now, I'm unemployed and I hate it. I am not getting
employment insurance, because I lost my last claim against my former
employer, who I'd love to name and flame, but I'm a person of
principle, so I won't....
Nevertheless, my last boss, a woman, did fire me because we had the
same romantic interest, and she, being my boss, had the upper hand in
the circumstances of my employment. She fabricated an altercation
between us, reported my "insubordinate" behavior to HR, had me
officially written up, and then followed up with another lie to HR
about me cussing at her (which I would never do to a boss, no matter
how much I've wanted to), summarily getting me fired on the spot. At
my hearing two weeks ago, the judge sided with her.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr....
THE INJUSTICE!!!!
Oh yeah, I'm dating the guy now. He thinks she's an ass.

But, now, I've been applying to every job I can find. Anything from
deli clerk to delivery driver to webmaster to office admin. ANYTHING!
I've applied to anything I think I'm capable of doing, even if it's
below my qualifications and salary standard.
What happens? I go on an interview, if I'm lucky enough to get one,
sized up, and told I'm overqualified. They won't hire me because they
know as soon as I find something "better" I'll be gone and they'll
have to find someone else again.
/sigh

I keep trying. I keep applying to anything and everything.
I'm even brainstorming brainstorming, HOW can I earn a living?
Perhaps we can all create a forum to brainstorm and create our own
means of subsistence together?

I might be exasperated with my situation, but I'm not giving up, and I
know that I can put my creative mojo to work to conjure some sort of
really cool and rewarding situation that pays my bills and more!

I have digital indie filmmaking interests and projects going at the
moment. I've written a couple screenplays, and I've been trying to
find funding and producers for my materials. It's not easy, but my
dream keeps me going.

What are your ways of handling having been unemployed and trying to
overcome the quagmire you can get stuck in?

Why I Quit Hunter House Publishers (or, The Creep) (thanks Lori!)

Here’s a poem about my last boss - a nasty little perv who hastened my departure for the working world by insisting that, although I was working in acquisitions, publicity and editorial, my main duty was to "smile when you gaze into my eyes". I picked up my purse and ran like the proverbial rabbit. It's true that when we entered his lair, we had to sit down immediately so that his head wouldn't be too much lower than ours. He was quite short, but more short of soul:

The Creep said, You must sit so I will be tall,

and they sat down but looked down at him through taller eyes.

The Creep said, I am the smartest of us all,

And no one laughed because that would be rude.

The Creep said, I can harm you, so I will,

and the pigeons on the windowsill cooed and preened,

And he strutted and cackled and threatened all day

and the People ignored him and all went away.

I'm Calling in Sick, Forever: (thanks Nancy Levine)

My eyes popped open an hour before the alarm clock was due to buzz.  I had set it to ring an hour later than the usual six-thirty, since I knew I wouldn’t be going to work anyhow.  The alarm clock was of the cheap electric variety, a little ivory colored plastic box.  So many times I had wanted to kill it, to throw it across the room, stomp on its nubby snooze button until its clock guts, springs and wheels were heaped on the floor in a pile of mashed clock paste.  I toggled the alarm off and just lay there on my futon on the brown shag carpeted floor of my bedroom in Berkeley.  

At twenty-eight, I was the youngest Assistant Vice President of Human Resources at the Bank of California.  I stared straight up at the heavy wood beam that ran through the vaulted ceiling of my upstairs room.  I had often wondered if, in a big earthquake, the beam would fall on me, crush me like a bug.  At least then I wouldn’t have to go to work.  I felt trapped in the bank, my legs squeezed into panty hose like sausage casings.  The bow-tie around my neck choking me like a noose.   And the panic attacks were getting worse.  The day before, I’d nearly passed out in the elevator bank, before running back to the relative safety of my cubicle.

A soft breeze made the burlap curtain billow as I felt nausea begin to rise in my chest.  My stomach felt as though something were eating at its lining, like little Pac-Man heads chomping on my insides.     

Seven forty-five.  Ralph, my boss, didn’t get in until eight-fifteen.  I looked again. 7:47.  I looked again. 7:49.  I watched the second hand creep around the face of the clock.  It seemed to slow down during the uphill climb between the six and the twelve.  My breathing was shallow, as though there were a brick in my lungs to conserve oxygen, the way we put a brick in the toilet tank to conserve water.

I called in sick a lot.  I called in with root canal.  I called my grandmother in dead (not without guilt and fear of divine retribution).  I called in with a sprained ankle and then the next day wrapped my ankle in an ace bandage and came limping in with a cane.  The following day I panicked when I couldn’t remember which ankle to wrap.  I called in with a concussion, saying I got hit in the eye with a tennis ball and it had knocked me out.  I came in the next day with a patch on my eye.  I called in with a dresser dropped on my foot.  I called in with a scratched cornea from getting sand in my eye.  I was able to reuse the eye patch.

Eight-fifteen.  I hadn’t really thought about what I was going to say.  I just knew I couldn’t go back.  I picked up the phone and pressed the keypad to dial Ralph’s number.  I felt a drop of sweat trickle down between my shoulder blades and pool at the small of my back under my T-shirt.  I heard the dull pounding of my heart beating in my ears.  Phone rang.  Rang.  He picked up.

“Ralph Gardiner speaking.”
 
“Hi Ralph, it’s Nancy.”  He was used to my calling in sick, so so far, nothing was too unusual.  Unless he could tell I was acting weird.  I was struggling to exhale.  “Ralph, I have some news.  I need to resign.”  My voice sounded far away.  Like I was hearing an old tape recording of myself.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Nancy.”

“I actually can’t come back to the bank.”

Silence.

I continued, “You know, I’ve had some problems with my stomach, and I went to the doctor yesterday, and, well, um, they found a few malignant cells.” 

Longer silence. 

“So I guess I have a very, very slight case of cancer.”  I couldn’t believe I’d said that.  I hadn’t planned on it.  It just came out, like a sudden projectile vomit.

“Oh Nancy, I am so sorry.  What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go up to Mendocino.  You know, to try to heal myself.”  I don’t know why I picked Mendocino.  I had never been to Mendocino.  I had never been North of Petaluma, but I imagined Mendocino to be some sort of new age healing Mecca, like Lourdes for the Catholics or Miami Beach for my parents.

Ralph said, “Do you think we can talk about it?  You know, you don’t have to resign.  We can arrange a leave of absence for you.  Maybe we can get together, have a cup of coffee and talk about it.”

I felt bad about lying to Ralph.  He was a kind man, and I could tell that he wasn’t taking my cancer lightly.

“No, I have to quit.  Besides, I can’t drink coffee anymore.”  Good one.

“All right, Nancy.  Take care of yourself.  I hope you feel better.  Let us know how you’re doing.”

 I hung up the phone.  My T-shirt was damp and giving me a chill.  I heaved a massive sigh of relief and all the air was released from my overfilled lungs, like a balloon, and I felt like I might jettison around the room. I threw on some jeans and drove up to Peet’s for a nice cup of hot Sumatra.

Corporate Lies: (thanks Naima Holley)

I woke up this morning with the usual “I don’t want to go to work” routine. “Can I make my voice sound sick enough to convince my boss?”  Who wants to go to the office and deal with the everyday crap? For those of you that don’t work in Corporate America this will be a very informative entry. You should be forewarned of the crap you have to endure to sit in a cubicle next to people you don’t like.  When you get into Corporate America you will notice a general weekly routine that you will learn to hate.

Monday - someone will ask how your weekend was.  “Did you do anything big?”  Like if I did I would tell them.  “Yeah I got drunk met a man at a bar and took him home for sex.”  Since I know I can’t say that I always say, “nothing special, did laundry and cleaned.”

Tuesday – “Good morning how are you?”  “Pissed, I am here and I have no choice.  I have to pay my rent if not, I would not be here!”   But the proper thing to say is “fine, how are you doing?”  Even though you don’t care no truth can be told in Corporate America.

Wednesday - someone always says, “I can’t wait until Friday.”  Who can’t? Dumb ass! But me too is a better reply.

Thursday – “Thank god tomorrow is Friday. I am just so drained.” You should be, you kissed ass pretty hard all week long.  This requires a me too reply unless it’s your boss, then you might want to say how you regret how fast the week has gone by. 

Friday – “Any big plans for the weekend?”  “Yeah, planning on going to the bar and drinking too much again or drinking at home and masturbating.  I hope the guy with the big penis is at the bar.”  There are a bunch of big willies in Corporate America so lying about your financial status is beneficial.  You may want to say you were considering going to your beach house in the Hamptons or flying down to Florida to catch some rays.  

I have been at my job for 3 years and I don’t care who quits or how many new people come in the office it’s always the same dumb questions that don’t warrant truthful answers.  But in Corporate America what is truth? My boss who I will call “Sam” is a regular corporate guy.  He is a loser with the women but a winner with the CEO. While most of us like to believe honesty is the best policy he has learned ass kissing and lying is the only way to be successful.  Apparently, I still lack these skills.  Our company is about to merge with another company so I ask the obvious question.  “Will there be layoffs?”  “Sam” looks at me widens his eyes and promises there will be no layoffs, everyone will have their same job.  Now I am no rocket scientist but mergers usually mean layoffs but admitting this to your low-level employees might cause them to leave before you get everything you need from them so the only thing to do is lie. 
 
I learned the hard way it’s not what or how much you know it’s the ass kissing you do and how well you can bullshit.  Some are in with the in crowd and some are not but my situation is unique.  Since I have been at my company for so long I know everyone and everyone knows me.  Some of the snotty hire ups will never acknowledge me but I know who they are.  Don’t you hate when people act like they don’t know you?  I had to learn the hard way that ignoring low-level employee is expected unless you need them to make a copy for you or call a cab. That’s just the way it is in the corporate world.  The more money you make the less you have to speak to the administrative staff.  I did not know this rule when I started so trying to be a good ass kisser I said hello to everyone and to my disappointment I learned not everyone will acknowledge you.  This could be extremely embarrassing in the street. I saw one of the Senior Vice Presidents in the street.  I will call her “Cindy”.  I said hello to “Cindy” and waved my hand.  Not only did she not respond she pretended to not see or hear me.  This causes me to be immediatly embarrassed and my insecurities to rise.  I looked around in the immediate area and hoped no one saw my hello to a person that did not want to acknowledge me.  From that point on I will not acknowledge anyone until they acknowledge me first. 

Corporate America may have advantages such as the ability to call internationally for free, make copies of your butt, and IM friends all day but I still cant decide if is worth dumb questions, lies and the lack of appreciation I have to endure 5 days a week. 

Riding the Train to Nowhere: (thanks A.G.R.)

Most of the time, naked windows have little to offer; vacant rooms, silent dwellers, and other boring nouns that sadly, make my life seem exciting. Of course, there is the occasional fight or fleeting nipple, each pumping my adrenaline into a cyclonic fervor.

But this alone is not why I choose to ride the train.

I take it to find out what pictures you have hanging on your walls. I take it to see if you have plastic shoe racks hanging from closet doors. Do you dine alone? Scrub the kitchen floors? These are things I like to know about, because the more I know you, the more I learn about myself.

For as long as I can remember, the train has always been there. My childhood was spent struggling over homework under the symmetrical shadows of the tracks.

“According to the story, the protagonist is ---

WHOOSH

The train would fill a mostly empty house with sound and take the correct answers with it. Being brought up this way, makes my commitment to the train, that much easier to understand. As long as there are windows revealing life, I’ll ride, hoping to regain a little more of myself than I had before.

The greatest city in the world lies ahead as we fly past Chinese storefronts and a slumbering Shea Stadium. Big buildings across the horizon climb into the heavens, creating the illusion of the accessibility of opportunity and wealth. There was a time in my life, before this cold listlessness washed over me, that I actually though I could be an angel in the penthouse, making decisions that really mattered. That was until the unforeseen surfaced in a whisper.

My eyes bounce off the walls, zigzagging from window to window. I peer, glance, inspect – hoping that today will be the day I find something to hold onto. The small houses of Corona have nothing to offer, at least not tonight. A well-lit billboard for a major financial institution is the only thing that reaches out to shake me.

“When you drink from the cup of life, chug”

It takes every ounce of restraint coursing through my veins to resist screaming back,

“What if life’s cup has been drained as I die of thirst and gasp for air, you f**kers”

Recently, when I breathe, I feel as if I’m reaching for butterflies. They circle over my head and fly in front of my face, but slip through my fingers like sand. When air enters your body both short and shallow, you wish you could hold it, if just for the moment, and celebrate. I scan the packed train for other butterfly hunters. Seemingly, there are none, and I feel more alone than ever, a lone rider on a crowded train. Destination, nowhere.

We make our way through Woodside, which tonight, is bustling. A large flannelled man eats a bucket of fried chicken with zeal. An elderly couple clings to each other as the ever-knowing and self-important Alex Trebek drones on and on about “true daily doubles”. A little Asian boy sits at a desk and foils away at his geometry homework. A man is hulked over a refrigerator, the little light bulb offering just enough radiance to display his dissatisfaction with the offerings.

The streetlights line the tracks, bee lining by in uniform succession. We’re between stops ---

between lives.

The equilibrium of existence is beautiful, with squares of life delivering my sanity.

We pass over the Grand Central Parkway. Taillights and headlights swirl together, creating a candy cane road. A nondescript warehouse reveals dozens of workers standing patiently as a conveyer belt moves life past their very eyes. I’ve seen this place hundreds of times, but could never get a handle on what was going on inside. I imagined some sort of button factory, or a place that puts the knobby things on top of baseball hats, but had no reason to believe either. Some women wearing long aprons sit on a stoop at the side of a building, smoking their cigarettes and staring up at the sky. I look down at them through a cloud of smoke and suddenly realize that I have no choice but to find out exactly what they are manufacturing.

On the way home I didn’t even have the desire to watch. My head stayed low as the possibilities of the factory rattled around my brain, quickly putting me down. The next time I opened my eyes we were at he last stop. I shuffled off the train, went straight home and proceeded right to bed.

The babies came right off the assembly line – shiny, perfect, and new. Wrapped tightly in innocence, each was individually packaged and prepared for final inspection. Most make the cut, others do not. What the inspectors were specifically looking for, I have no idea, but when a bad baby came along, they knew immediately. There was a special red conveyor belt for these babies that led to a gray square in the wall covered by thick opaque plastic. I went to find out what happened to the babies once they entered this room. Quicker than I thought my frame would allow, I stealthily jumped onto the belt for the ride, and hoped I would clear the window and make it to the other side.

The phone sent me upright and cost me the opportunity to find out where the bad babies go. The factory continued to manufacture thoughts. Rather than waste the day wondering, I decided to hop into my car and find out. Taking the train during these daylight hours was out of the question.

After making a right at Northern Boulevard, I quickly realize that I’m in uncharted territory. There are many factories. Warehouses. Graffiti ridden garage doors. And a serious litter problem. I entered a world that knew no garbage cans.
Rusty fire escapes suffered paint loss. Rooftops sprung unsightly steel from all directions. Ducts, vents and chimneys collaborated. Windows wore wrought iron, as if they had something to hide. Antennas and satellite dishes connected a fragmented world. Barbed wire protected all. Ivy shrouded dark brick walls. Blue tarps corked backyard pools. Sheds melted into the ground. Telephone wires contained unruly trees.

From the train trestle I knew exactly where to begin; now, thrown into the mix, I had no idea where the factory stood. Combing the oddly wide streets led nowhere and inquiries of a foreign population were sure to be fruitless. Discouraged, hungry and more infatuated than ever, the only option was to return home and ride the train again tonight.

Practically every apartment on the sixth floor was illuminated. A woman in a pink housecoat tended to the dirty dishes. A shirtless man in shiny Adidas pants drank some OJ right out of the paper carton. His younger brother knelt in the foreground, tapping his hamster’s plastic cage repeatedly. A stove stood wide open. Button down shirts hung off plastic hangers. Window fan. Bronze teapot. A couple eating at a small round table.

Sickness.

It’s a feeling that is difficult to articulate. Somewhere between carsickness and Attention Deficit Disorder is where it is. With eyes working overtime to capture every detail of the consecutively lit apartments, my body began to reject my body. A stabbing pain developed over my left eye, made tolerable only when I cradled my head in cold hands. There was nothing left to do but shut eyes and wait for the stretch of land that held the factory of dreams, thoughts, and hope.

Finally, we approached the warehouse. It’s amazing how darkness not only hides the world away but shifts everything into the unforeseen. The train was more crowded than usual and all the window seats were taken, leaving me no choice but to stand by the doors and glare from there. Interior train lighting is quickly becoming Public Enemy No. 1 and when presented with the opportunity, I have been removing the bulbs from their sockets, creating a more conducive environment for sight. It’s a maneuver that can only work in the still of the night. In this age of terror, a dozen people will bring you down before you can touch the ceiling. Being such a flat, non-descript area, I needed to find a visible marker to track the factory during daylight hours.

Wow, what a big television you have.
Your kids work well together in the kitchen.
How many apples do you really need?

It struck me odd that a mirror hung over the microwave. Or that you seemed to collect large paper cups from fast food restaurants and stack them next to the sink. Bright red flowers crept out of the flowerpot and hung for dear life.

A beautiful obstruction.

Trickling down the glass panes, a window that once stood starkly revealed was now conflicted by botany.

The houses ended and that’s where I began to count lampposts. 15, 16, 17…

And the factory was there in all its glory.

A concrete smokestack worked the whitest smoke I’d ever seen into the air. Maybe it’s a cloud factory. Hundreds of windows that had earlier revealed much of the room’s composition now appeared shut. No one took a cigarette break and the train passed by faster than ever. I wondered if the factory even existed. The people, the cigarette breaks, maybe they just dwell in my mind. Maybe they help me to believe that such places exist.

Places of wonder.

Places other than my own.

I think I’ll let the factory remain a mystery, I won’t pursue it any longer. I’ll gaze at it every night and I’ll see the women on their smoke breaks looking to the sky, looking to something other, maybe even looking at me, wondering about the man on the train who looks tired.

I won’t crack the mystery. Not today.

The Waiter Strikes Back: (thanks Harry Dotman)

after a warm, boring spring evening of work at a restaurant (tgi
fridays) i sat watching jerry maguire, one of my favorite films of all
time. as i watched, i thought more and more about how much i hated
working at my current locale. it's my eleventh restaurant, and my only
casual gig. so i go to a 24 hour kinkos, print out 150 copies of jerry
maguires mission statement (google: jerry maguire mission statement),
get it bound in blue like in the film. pack a beer bong, and a twelve
pack of beer in my car. I beer bong beer after beer on the way to
work. i walk in to the restaurant, mid afternoon: 4 hours late. i go
to the hostess stand, and read the first half of the mission statement
before they call the cops. i tell them i hate working there, passed
out the 150 copies of the mission statement and then scram. that was
the best day of my life. to be a nihilist and not have any work ethic,
that is freedom. trust me.

Michelle Says Goodbye to her co-workers! (thanks Michelle!)

The following is a letter I sent to friends, family,
and former co-workers the day I got released from the
plantation, as I like to call it.

Dear all,

I'll get right to the point. I got fired last week,
Wednesday to be exact. I know I was a damn good
publicist, web marketer, co-worker, event booker, you
name it. We all have our faults, but I do not feel
that mine got in the way of doing my best as a
publicist at that company. I enjoyed working with each
and every one of you. I learned a lot from you. I
loved talking with you and getting to know you. And
I'm sorry if my departure came as a shock to you, it
shocked me as well. I was very sad, confused, angry,
and now I feel quite frankly relieved. I loved working
with everyone there, with the exception of my
immediate boss and her boss. They just didn't "get"
me.

This is the first time in my career that I have
been fired. I'm a hard worker and frankly I overworked
at that company and worried constantly about what
possible reasons my manager could have for trying to
squelch my enthusiasm (those were my therapist's words
actually); criticizing my use of the word "awesome".
Well. I counted the number of times the other
publicist in our team said the word "awesome" one day
and it was way more than I could ever aspire to. The
other publicist was my boss's BEST FRIEND. 2 weeks
after I got hired, they both went to Thailand for a
couple weeks vacation. They're petty and catty, the
worst kind of women. They sit 2 cubicles away and they
call each other on the phone to giggle and "oh my god"
and talk about boys.

She actually had the nerve to question my sincerity,
my enthusiasm for my work.

She scrutinized my friendships at work, she didn't
like the fact that I bonded more with the other
manager in our marketing team. Her exboyfriend in the
company became a supportive friend of mine at work. (I
actually get along with people outside the marketing
group, she just wanted us to be our own little
in-crowd clique); oh how the list goes on.

She's a psychotic wench who went from being a
marketing assistant to marketing manager in just a
year. Everyone in the Editing group was astounded.
They still talk about it. She put stupid,
grammatically incorrect copy on the back covers of our
authors' books, the editors couldn't believe she got
away with that crap. And some authors were not pleased
as well.

But the point is, I got fired. She and her boss found
some complaints about me. So the author of this boring
as hell golf book didn't like my press release and he
wrote me a very demeaning letter about it, CC'd all
these "top" folks at the company. His book is crap!
But my press release (which my boss loved) got noticed
by major magazines and they wanted to see the book.
All the executives and my manager seemed to support me
and told me they didn't tolerate that kind of
demeaning behavior from authors, that they will make
him apologize to me. But did I get an apology from the
author? NO! That fake company just kissed his ass and
lied to me.

Most of my authors LOVE me, they appreciate my kind of
enthusiasm for work, how genuine I am. I don't treat
them like numbers.

So, I don't act all "businessy" and "uptight" with
everyone, I'm more of the "get to know ya", "joke with
ya" kind of publicist. My authors, my co-workers are
like family to me. Life is too short for all that high
falutin, business jargon, corporate office politics
crap. And I got paid a measly $32-grand before taxes
to take all of that up the ass, pardon my French.
(Tangent coming.) Hell, I had to defer repayment of my
student
loans for this job, I'm 30 years old, I have friends
younger than me who are buying houses and investing,
I'm lucky if I have at least $100 bucks in the bank
after paying rent. Let me break that down for you,
just in case you don't understand: I got a little over
900 bucks every 2 weeks from the company. But I'm not
bitter or anything. ;)

Anyway, back to my point, and I do have one. I do
business a different way. And I'm good at it. I'm not
saying I'm perfect. Of course I make mistakes. But not
enough to warrant getting fired. This is just so you
know. The purpose of this email is not to bad-mouth,
bitch, or get revenge. The purpose of this email is to
explain to some of my favorite authors and bookstore
event coordinators what REALLY happened. This is to
dispel any myths about me and my leaving the company.

That is all I have to say on the topic. And good lord,
it felt good to get it out. Thank you for reading. And
most of all, thank you for making me feel good while I
was there. I hope I did my best for you.

Wish me the best in my career pursuits. And keep in
touch.

Yours sincerely,

Michelle

P.S. Ramen is pretty cheap.