To Whoever Finds This (Hopefully Not My Dogs—They’ve Been Through Enough),
Well. I’ve finally resigned from life. No notice. No final Zoom call. Just one last deeply underpaid act of initiative. If there's an afterlife, I hope it includes bottomless wine, [weed], a solid Wi-Fi signal, and absolutely no performance reviews.
Let’s clear something up right away: I loved my career. Loved it the way some people love chaotic art-house films—fiercely, even when it made no sense and everyone else just nodded politely. I was good at it. Really good. I held teams together with grace, grit, and the ability to detect a BS excuse from 30 paces.
But while I was out here writing reports that made executives look smarter than they were, those same men were leapfrogging past me into promotions like it was a damn trampoline park. I trained half my bosses. The other half I should’ve fired. Instead, I smiled, stayed late, and got thanked with $50 gift cards and inspirational mugs that said things like “Boss Babe.”
Now, on to the juicier stuff. Let’s just say my problem was never a lack of passion. I was a walking furnace of lust and romantic fire—an absolute storm of sensuality. The problem was the men. God bless them, they tried, but most couldn’t match my energy, emotionally or... athletically. I lived for connection, for fire, for that kind of intimacy that makes you consider canceling meetings. Instead, I got a lot of “Hey, want to chill?” and socks left on my coffee table.
Still, there were some beautiful moments. There were nights. There were sparks. But they were rare, and often wasted on men who thought foreplay was turning off the TV.
My real, consistent, ride-or-dies? My dogs. Loyal. Loving. Nonjudgmental. Excellent listeners. They were the only ones in my life who never asked me to shrink myself. Also, they never ghosted me.
One heartbreak I carry with me: I never got my backyard chickens. Just picture it—me in a robe, coffee in hand, surrounded by a posse of fluffy hens while I mutter about capitalism. A dream. A soft, clucking rebellion I never quite pulled off. Life had other plans. Mostly involving spreadsheets and underwhelming mating prospects.
So, if you’re reading this and wondering what to do next: take the trip. Ask for the raise. Get the chickens. And for the love of God, don’t date anyone who makes you feel like you’re too much. Be too much. Be loud. Be wild. Be deeply, unapologetically alive—while you still can.
P.S. Whoever ends up with my dogs, spoil them. And if you do get chickens—name the fiercest one after me. I hope she pecks someone in a tie.
– Me
(I thought it was funny 🤷🏻♀️)