The Fantasy

Dreaming of quitting your job...

The Fantasy

There was a guy I used to work with—middle management, clean khakis, completely normal on the surface—who once said, in total seriousness, that if he ever got fired, he’d march into the HR VP’s office, drop his pants, take a shit on the carpet, and then drag his bare ass across the floor like a dog.

Not yell. Not cry. Not lawyer up.

No—this man had fantasized about scooting his way to justice like a golden retriever with an itch.

It’s funny how often that image comes back to me.

Not because I want to do it.

I’m far too conditioned for shame, too practiced in silent exits and tight smiles. I was raised to clear my plate and say thank you, even if I was choking on it.

But there’s a part of me—deep down, tired, maybe a little rabid—that completely gets it.

I’ve worked for people who called me “their assistant” like they owned me, then acted betrayed when I wanted to stay employed. I’ve been replaced without warning, gaslit by grins, told I was too emotional for caring and not emotional enough when I didn’t. I’ve held dying animals at a job that wouldn’t pay me to take off the day for a funeral, and been expected to wade through waist-deep floodwaters to save someone else’s goldendoodle while the boss refused to risk his hundred-thousand-dollar car.

I didn’t drag my ass across the floor.

I went home. I cried.

I made chicken. I put on waterproof mascara and went to the next job like a professional. Like a fucking lady.

But the fantasy? It’s not nothing.

It’s the rage we’re not supposed to feel.

The breaking point no one talks about.

It’s the ghost of every moment we swallowed because we couldn’t afford not to.

So no, I won’t be the one to scoot my way out of the building.

But I’ll write it down.

I’ll laugh about it.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll sell this book, walk away from the company that’s gutted me three times, and finally wipe my hands clean—

without dragging anything but the truth.

Rage spent, I measured the damage.