I just quit my job. Weeks before I knew I was going to quit, I wrote this resignation letter. Then, in the excitement of finally being able to quit, I forgot to bring it with me when I actually did quit. Balls. Not a big deal, though: it was purposely designed to confound, flummox, and bring about the general idea that I was somewhat unstable, thus making my hasty departure a point of concern rather than indignation.
The highfalutin verbiage and esoteric references would have been lost on the audience anyway. I mean, the one guy has had the same handlebar moustache for at least two decades. And last year, he didn’t even tell us when one of our coworkers was murdered by his girlfriend (Sadly, I didn’t make that up. She ran him over with her car. Management said not one word about it, to avoid giving people a day off for the funeral. Again, I can’t stress this enough: I didn’t make that up.).
Having said that, I now realize he would have thrown the letter in the garbage after he read the first line anyways. Here’s what I had:
The World, or, My Resignation
If you’re reading this, that means I’m already dead.
Or not. Anyhoo. Where to begin. At the beginning, I reckon.
Some 900 odd days ago, under Libra’s balanced gaze, a new cycle began, I playing The Fool. As time shifted I slowly toed my way through the major arcana, in both work and private life, ultimately culminating in this letter, which as you see above, I have entitled ‘The World.’
To come at it from another angle—the Moirai may now weave my tale. Read:
In that September of 2011, Clotho, Spinner of Life, dealt my thread. Her sister, Lachesis, drew her rod and measured it. Now, this night, governed by the fish Pisces, Atropos The Unturning, eldest of the three sisters, must now brandish her abhorred shears, and make her calculated cut.
Main point being, in the Menippean satire that this job, and consequently my life, has become, the ultimate communication of this letter is that I am quitting, if you didn’t get that already.
Now, by this time you may have noticed that I have left this communique with the front office and vanished, while the traditional two weeks of notice have not yet passed. None of us need worry about this. In the vast scope of geological time, after Armageddon has come and gone, whatever form it chooses to take, be it Ragnarok, The Four Horsemen, The Karmatic Wheel coming to a stop, Nuclear Winter—I can assure you that my swift exit from this company will not matter in the least.
At that time, when aliens, remaining humans, cockroaches—whatever is left, really—pick through the rubble where once stood this office/warehouse compound, I can assure you that my failure to give the traditional fourteen days forewarning will not be mentioned, nor will it even be relevant.
As Elton John once sang, we are nothing more than a candle in the wind. Or Kenny Wayne Shepherd: cold on ice, joker on jack, tears on a river, whisper on a scream. It doesn’t mean a thing.
And thus, as mysteriously as I arrived, I now dissipate, into the nether regions of the working world. May dementors eat my soul should we cross paths again.
Guy that don’t work here no more
*In Tarot readings, The World card represents a cycle completed.
Many years ago, while enrolled in a prestigious technical college, I concocted a brew during my downtime between classes.
Part cappuccino, part energy drink. Named it ‘Enerchino.’ Tasted like liquid garbage, due to the experimental environment it was mixed in. Corporate funding, i.e. that of your Monster, Red Bull, etc., could have improved test versions. So I sent the recipe to a patent company. Never heard back.
Now, next time you’re in a gas station, take a stroll back to the beverage aisle, and a myriad of java-energy fusion drinks you will find. These conveniently achieved popularity about a year after I submitted my idea to that patent company.
There went my first million.
More recently, this past summer, I tried a new avenue of life-improving technology. You see, while still enrolled at the prestigious technical university mentioned above, I overheard fellow students discussing a mechanism called a ‘doob tube.’ It was simple: stuff an old toilet paper roll full of dryer sheets, then when marijuana drug smoke is blown through it, the scent is masked.
The New Invention:
Using dryer sheets and my own underpants, I attempted to create a garment that would cloak the aroma of flatulence, utilizing the same concept as the doob tube. It was impossible to fail. The one-person test group informed me that the odor of my wind was still very much noticeable. A request for the sheets to be sewn directly into the boxer shorts was denied, and the project was shelved. I knew I was on to something though.
A few weeks or days or months later, I see somebody post this on Facebook. That’s a link to a product called Shreddies. Shreddies. What kind of name is that. Guess what their product does. They make underwear that filters flatulence.
There goes another million.
So now, back at the drawing board, I sit here drinking a nearly undrinkable beverage that I just made, called CoffTea. It’s coffee and tea mixed together, and it’s revolting.
The other night, while The Chick That Hangs Out At My Apartment Sometimes and I were sitting around, having a few beers, we decided to do something crazy. I got out a book that had just arrived in the mail. Within the pages sat a smorgasbord of moves and new ways of thinking that could be a lot of fun for a couple kids with a buzz on.
The book I’m referring to is My 60 Memorable Games, by Bobby Fischer.
It contains move by move notations of 60 matches handpicked by Fischer himself. Imagine being in the same room as Michelangelo wrote homoerotic poetry to Tommaso dei Cavalieri, or shaped a block of marble into the form of a nude man. Only on the rarest of occasions are we allowed to witness genius in action.
We chose a 1962 showdown between Fischer and Argentinian Julio Bolbochan. The match, titled in the book as ‘A Brilliant Cadenza,’ was immediately mistaken by me for ‘A Brilliant Credenza.’ My confusion was soon cleared up, as it was brought to my attention that a glorified cupboard had nothing to do with a chess game.
The whole point is this: when I write my autobiography, documenting the time I got my master’s degr—landed my dream jo—accomplished something, I am stealing A Brilliant Cadenza for the title of the book. Or I’ll use Brilliant Credenza, just to screw with people.
I am now deep into Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, book three of seven in the wildly popular series. I’ve stayed sheltered this long, having avoided the bombardment of hype surrounding the final book nearly seven years ago, as well as the film adaptations. I think I’ve got some of it figured out, though. Here are a few of my predictions for how the story arc will play out.
—Harry and Ron become so fed up with Professor Snape that they get him arrested for being a pedophile. How do they do that? I thought I’d never ask. In a genius ironic twist, the two boys use the knowledge they gain from the Potions class that Snape teaches, to concoct a Love Potion. They sneak it into Snape’s lunch, causing him to become hopelessly in love with those surrounding him, i.e., a bunch of young witches and wizards. Now, the magical lifestyle differs from that of Muggles in many ways, but I assume that pedophilia is frowned upon even in wizardry.
—Or maybe pedophilia is accepted in the wizarding world, which is why everyone hates Voldemort and his womanizing.
—Oh yeah, Harry and Ron get the Love Potion on themselves and start dating.
—A larger portion of the next book will be devoted to the Dursleys, where we find that their treatment of Harry is justified. Think about it: I’m not even finished with the third book, and Harry has already broken enough rules to justify expulsion from Hogwarts several times over, including illegal use of magic in the Dursley home. Rules are rules, Harry. Deal with them like the rest of us.
—Hermione is going to kill herself after graduation, when she comes to the realization that a degree in witchcraft is worthless. Her resume, citing arithmancy and transfiguration as her ‘special skills,’ will be used on job search websites as template of how not to get hired.
—I know Dumbledore dies, but not how. My guess is a coprophilia exploration gone wrong.
I can’t wait to find out how close I am on all these.
Efficiency. That’s what life is all about. Eliminate unnecessary movements in order to dedicate more time to what really matters. There’s a reason you don’t put a couch in front of the door, because it would take longer to climb over it.
Recently, I efficiency-ized my internal world. My body, that is. And it worked. I don’t know how, but I did it. Had I been more scientific-minded at the outset, I would have recorded everything—diet, exercise, sleep schedule. But none of that matters, because my body is now a harmonious, self-sustaining institution.
Need proof? I haven’t produced bodily waste in over five days. Imagine that. Everything I’ve consumed over nearly a week has been 100% used up. My digestive system is equivalent to a Native American hunter after a buffalo kill. Nothing gets thrown out.
I’ve become a walking lithium-ion battery.
Think about how much time you spend expunging waste from your body. I don’t have that problem anymore. What a reverberating relief! I’m selling my toilet, and never looking back.
Have fun pooping, idiots!
Don’t judge a book by its title. There in the library I stood, flummoxed, wondering why I never knew that the French absurdist had written a book on the popular move known as ‘The Stranger.’
From what some guy, no, some girl told me, a really hot girl to be honest, I think she was a model actually, ’The Stranger’ is a tactic where you sit on your hand to cut off the blood flow, inducing a tingly, numb sensation. Then you use that hand to touch your, well, you can touch whatever you want with it, and the experience is not unlike that of a ‘stranger’ fondling you.
How could Camus possibly write an entire novel on this (what I have heard from very attractive women, but never, ever experienced myself) gratifying act?
Unless there were arcane metaphors that went way over my head, he didn’t. I burned right through this thing, the anticipation growing with every page, waiting to be slapped with the titular maneuver. Over 80% of the way through, I was ready to give up, until I recalled Moby Dick rarely appears in the novel that bears his name.
Turns out The Stranger is about a man who kills a stranger. Kind of a letdown.
As the polar vortex returns to Minnesota, schools are again shutting down for the chill. In order to make kids less dumb, those days have to be made up somewhere, generally at the end of the academic year. However, if we look to Newtonian thought, we can expect trouble in June as well, for the third law of motion tells us that “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”
Come summer, we can expect the complete opposite of the polar vortex—a sort of tropical steamer, as it were. When the time comes to make up the days being missed now, it will simply be too hot for the youth to go to school. By the time the heat blast gives way, it will be well past the solstice.
Why not make up the days then, you may be pondering. I come from a lineage of educators, most notably my Mother. Now, there are three things that teachers love about the job—winter break, spring break, and summer break. Especially summer break. If teachers are expected to continue working into July, we can expect nothing less than chaos.
For instance, every June, it is tradition for my Mother to peel out of the school parking lot, stop at the liquor store, then disappear down into the utility shed until Labor Day. As far as I know, she isn’t even aware of the existence of the time we call ‘July,’ and August lives in her brain as a sort of hypnopompic hallucination, with the opening of September being the first solid grasp of reality after a three month soak in rum and Pepsi.
So now the make-up days have been pushed into what would be the new school year. Mass confusion can be expected here, as many of the students won’t realize that they are still in the grade from the previous year for the first week or so of the new year. By the time all that gets smoothed out, we’re looking at the September holidays—Talk Like A Pirate Day, Mexican Independence Day, Rosh Hashanah, Oktoberfest. Then October harvest arrives, when all the children head to the fields to shuck corn and shave animals. In November, it will be deemed too ‘nice’ out for the kids to be cooped up in school, due to the looming polar vortex of next winter. Throw in all the cancelled days for that, and we’re basically up to January 23rd of 2015, when the whole cycle repeats and repeats and repeats and repeats.