letter to the president

Dear Highest of Higher Ups:

You
will
not
win.

Got that? See, you can still send rude emails and tell me I never do anything right (You did just give me a raise, so I must be doing something right. But anyway, that’s not the point.) You can scream. You can red-line everything I produce. But from here on out, you will not cause me stress.
I will continue to work until 11:30 at night if that’s what it takes. But I will do it from home. AFTER I go to the gym where I imagine I am running all over your leathery face. And I won’t be burning the midnight oil for you. Nope. I’ll be working for every other peon who has to kiss your smarmy ass all the time. And I won’t care what you think. Because your negative energy is totally getting in the way. You’re like the antithesis to good mental health. Do you need a moment to look up antithesis in the dictionary?
So, anyway, that’s really all I have to say. Oh, and this: fuck off.

That is all.

H