Our manager, Susan, used to be… well, normal. Reasonable. Even, dare I say it, pleasant. But something shifted a few weeks ago. She’s become a dispensing machine of disciplinary action, handing out final warnings like they’re Halloween candy. It’s like working in a minefield. One wrong step, one misplaced comma, one slightly too-long lunch break, and *BOOM* – final written warning.
I swear, I saw Brenda from accounting get one for using too much printer paper. Too much! Apparently, two-sided printing is now a matter of company survival. Then there was poor Jurian from marketing. His crime? Replying “all good!” instead of “All is well,” in an email to a client. Susan claimed it was “unprofessional.” Unprofessional enough for a final warning? Apparently so.
Now, the entire office is walking on eggshells. We jump at the ping of an email notification. We scrutinize every document like it’s the Dead Sea Scrolls. Lunch breaks are a silent, hurried affair, everyone shoveling down sad desk salads while nervously glancing at the clock. No one dares to even breathe too loudly.
The other day, I was five minutes late returning from lunch. Five minutes. Traffic was a nightmare, I had a flat tire – honestly, the universe seemed to be conspiring against me. I rushed back, heart pounding, already composing my apology in my head. But it was too late. Susan was waiting, her face a mask of disapproval, a crisp white envelope clutched in her hand. You guessed it – final warning. For “tardiness,” which, ironically, she handed to me five minutes late because she was stuck in a meeting. The irony was apparently lost on her.
I haven’t slept properly in days. I keep dreaming of mountains of final warnings, burying me alive under a paper avalanche of corporate disapproval. My eye twitches involuntarily. I’ve started saying “All is well” in my sleep.
We’re all terrified. Whispers and rumors fly around the office like startled birds. Is Susan under pressure from upper management? Is she having a midlife crisis? Did someone replace her coffee with decaf and unleash this reign of terror upon us? Nobody knows.
So here we are, living in a constant state of low-grade panic, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for the next final warning to drop. Waiting for Susan to snap and fire us all for breathing too loudly. At this point, I’m honestly considering preemptively writing my own final warning, just to get it over with. At least then I can finally relax. Maybe.
Share this content: