Special Report -- I quit my day job yesterday. I just couldn't imagine growing old with those people.
How they hated me!
The company for which I worked sold stuff. I don't remember what, exactly—it's not important now because it certainly wasn't important then. Anyway, trucks would bring stuff to our building and people would empty the trucks and put the stuff in other trucks that would then leave. In trade lingo, that's known as commerce.
My part, as I understood it, involved reviewing printouts that detailed the difference between the number of trucks coming in and the trucks going away. That's called profit margin, another industry term.
I'm very competitive. I'm more competitive than most other people, and I do it better than anyone else. Why should I let losers and douchebags slow me down? My ex-boss Beverly, who looked like the exact opposite of Jessica Alba, said my approach was a way of achieving sales leadership.
Some of the people with whom I worked exerted more energy avoiding doing their jobs than they would have spent if they had just done what they were paid to do. That's called management.
There are very specific methods to be implemented if the goal is to achieve great results. Everything I do is done for a reason, and according to a particular procedure.
Once, for example, I spent six grueling weeks collecting data, running trials, and poring over competitive analysis. I didn't have time to eat or sleep or poop but the outcome positively validated my theory and justified my efforts. I proved it is far more efficient (and therefore more profitable) to lay a pencil across the ridge formed by keys F1 through F6, and a pen across F7 through F12. I can't even begin to tell you what happens if you do the opposite!
You're always going to have to work alongside an element that doesn't "get it." You know who they are—they're in the adjacent cubicle, wondering why you're so quiet right now. They wallow in laziness, moral dereliction, personal problems you wish they'd leave at home, and anarchy. These people want to destroy you. Don't let them.
Dragging you down raises them up. Disrupting your carefully constructed processes empowers them. Waiting until you've left to take a pee break (you'd have to take one eventually, although I've trained myself to hold it for days) and moving your Post-it notes from their correct location on the left side of your desk next to the monitor and repositioning them underneath the phone handset cord is simply a flirtation with danger that only gives these sick weirdoes a thrill.
I created a special code that nobody understood but me. If someone came over to ask me something stupid, like, would I help them with their assignment (no way) or did I know where the first aid kit was located (sorry—I don't use the stuff), I'd smile and give them an answer that *sounded* friendly and reasonable, but wasn't.
If they thought they heard me say:
"Looks like a great opportunity but I think you've got it under control,"
What I meant was:
"How could someone such as yourself who uses their ass for brains possibly make a positive contribution to this very demanding project?"
That code was how I dealt with inter-office communications. When directed outside our building I called it marketing.
I won't reveal the exact form of encryption I employed because I'll probably need to use it on you some day, but be assured you'll never have the first clue about what I'm really saying.
It could be working right now, for all you know.
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