FROM THE ARCHIVES: October 03, 2005

I wrote this post when I worked for a terrible, terrible man who owned a book publishing house here in Anchorage. They were stupid, self-published books and mostly Alaskana topics. But he was a plain nasty man and I HATED him for it. I only lasted four months, I think. Four long, long, long months.

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Sticking it to the man.
Current mood: amused

I'm sure if you have read my blogs, you get the point that I hate my job. Last week I had a rather unsuccessful (I think) job interview at another place and will most likely NOT get that job. Nevermind that, I say. I'm practicing my resignation letter anyway. See below.

I’d like to announce my official resignation from your company. In case you’re too stupid to figure out why, I’ve been nice enough to give exact reasons below.

1. The position advertised said "associate editor." It should have said "pathetic minion" because that is all this position is. I might have felt I had more dignity had I shown up and had a "kick me" sign taped to my back and my fly undone.
2. The "exciting assignments" you advertised should have been named what you really meant—"bitch work." If you want the newspaper stack to look neat, stop tossing your used papers on it carelessly as you walk by. If you insist on doing that, clean the fucking thing yourself. Organize your own bloody phonebook shelves. Invent your own filing system…better yet, set a match to that fucking pigsty office and just start fresh. I doubt you need to hold on to your asshole memos you sent employees back in 1982. You probably don’t remember them and most likely they’ve burned you in effigy once or twice…you’ll never hear from them again, so get rid of it— and don’t ask me to. When you’re being sued for shady business practices, don’t ask me to make copies of your subpoenas. Show a strand of intelligence and do the damned thing yourself—I’m only going to read it and tell everyone in the company you’re being sued because you're a slimeball.
3. Let’s touch on those communications skills, if you don’t mind. If I hear "as promptly as possible" one more time, I’ll break your nose. If you say "do a real reality check on so and so" in my presence again, I’ll bite your nose off. I swear to God I will. Try me.
4. Continuing with communication…there is a computer in your office, I know there is. You’ve sent an email once or twice, so I know you’ve noticed it and I’m sure you’ve been trained on its particulars. Why don’t you use it and retire that fucking typewriter and save some shard of professional dignity you might have left? Typing scathing memos to me about trivial matters on a goddamned clickety clack typewriter (makes no difference to me that it’s electric)is absolutely ridiculous and it makes me laugh at you behind your back. You look like a motherfucking fool when I see white out and corrections typed over your typos. I feel plain sorry for you when I see that you’ve scrawled corrections in red pen over other mistakes—like you want me to see that you did, in fact, catch that mistake and that you were just too busy to retype it. Try a motherfucking Word document, loser.
5. We all know you are on anti-depressants and we don’t think it’s enough. I found a note you scrawled that said something to the effect that "I’m dying inside." In the future, please keep your thoughts of suicide to yourself if you insist on acting like an asshole at every opportunity. I just don’t feel sorry for you when I read shit like that after having been micro-managed for the past five hours, and in fact, I passed that stupid note around and we all had a good laugh at your expense. We think you’re psycho.
6. Torn pieces of scrap paper are not proper substitutes for post-it notes, you tightwad. They’re not even fucking close. Don’t ask me if I "really need a black AND a blue pen" at the same time. I do. Fuck off and quit being such a miser. We all laugh at you for it.
7. Invest in a travel-sized toothbrush and toothpaste and spend the money for a full sized deodorant. You make me cringe each time you come into my office after lunch and I wretch on the inside as soon as you open your mouth. You stink. You really do. It’s disgusting and you should be ashamed of yourself.

I hope the above list has helped you understand my position a little better. I thank you for the opportunity to work here and am sorry that it did not work out. Scratch that. This fucking job sucked ass and I’m going to run naked through the streets singing at the top of my lungs as soon as these next two weeks are over.

Best of luck to you . I wish you well. (Now that’s a lie. I hope you slip on some ice and break your fucking hip, you mean old bastard.)

Sincerely,

Megan