Fifty Ways To Leave Your Employer

Okay, fellow entities, here we go.

I'm sitting at my kitchen table, hungover — because I was getting my whiskey on with my bestie — trying to write something with the noble goal of making you laugh.

Well — sorry if this sounds a little vain — but honestly?

Nothing’s funnier than a person’s real life.

Especially when that person is me.

Let’s see:

I'm 35 years old and I've had about 33 different jobs.

(Starting at 16. Don’t worry, I didn’t peak early. I just peaked often.)

Would you believe that at one point I was a camp counselor... and later, a nanny?

With a blonde mohawk.

Yep. Just out here raising the next generation, one questionable hairstyle at a time.

You see, I’ve always been a little... unconventional.

I went to school for two years and earned myself a—wait for it—Diploma in Comedy Writing and Performance.

Basically, a PhD.

(That’s "Pretty Huge Diploma," because, yeah. It’s clown size.)

I had to find those jobs that wouldn’t interfere with my comedic performances.

Nothing too early — I was up at 2 A.M. then.

Nothing too late either — a girl’s gotta sleep off her existential dread sometime.

I spent years searching for that perfect shitty little job:

Something just tolerable enough to survive, while still allowing me to roam free and please the masses with my wit.

Although, full disclosure...

I also quit comedy.

So... 33 jobs and 1 dream.

I could write a whole book on ghosting employers.

Honestly, that became more of an art than my actual "art."

Once, my phone died while my boss was screaming at me to get to work in twenty minutes.

(For context: I was a security guard. I know. Irony.) The whole thing was bullshit anyway. I wasn’t even scheduled. Some other guy was hungover and calling in "sick."

Whatever. It was Sunday. I was hungover.

And I was one bad smell away from ducking into an alley to vomit like a disgraced Victorian orphan.

The sad screen of my LG Rumor 2 flashed its final goodbye. (Yes — the one with the slide-out keyboard. Pimp.)

I took that as a sign from God Himself.

I changed my number immediately, washed my hands of the whole thing, and floated away into the unemployment sunset like a champion. I found a job immediately after. I was a twenty-something stand-up comedian with no real résumé.

No degree that mattered.

No job experience that didn’t end with me Irish exiting.

Just me — and a half-assed personality I’m pretty sure I stole from a TV show.

Ghosting used to be a lot easier back when all you had was a flip phone and a sketchy Facebook account.

Now there’s fifty ways to contact your employee — text, call, email, DM, LinkedIn, carrier pigeon, emergency contact... good luck disappearing without a paper trail.

I worked with this one guy who ghosted his dishwashing job mid-shift.

He just took the trash out, hucked the bag into the dumpster, and fucked all the way off.

Now that...

That’s impressive.

Until you have to slink back a week later to claim your sad little paper paycheque.

Ah, the good old days...

Speaking of dishwashing jobs...

I learned pretty fast that kitchen work was everywhere.

Why?

Because kitchens have a higher turnover rate than Tinder dates.

Most places were either barely staffed or staffed just enough to keep the ship from sinking — and even that was generous.

How else do you think a steakhouse keeps their profit margins sky-high?

Spoiler: It's not the quality of the baked potatoes.

I worked as a dishwasher, line cook, bar back, server, bartender —

I've been on both sides of the kitchen and damn did I rage-quit some of those jobs.

It was a holiday.

(Another classic downfall of working hospitality: kiss your paid day off goodbye. Your ass is in the restaurant, pushing overpriced specials for no extra pay.)

Anyway — it was a warm summer day.

Beautiful blue sky.

The kind of day that makes you think life could be beautiful...

And there I was, trapped in a 50-degree kitchen, running around like my life depended on it.

We were six hours in, and the chits were hitting the floor like war casualties.

My chef screamed my name.

I turned just in time to see a metal insert flying at my head.

I sidestepped like Neo in The Matrix, and the thing crashed into a mountain of pots and pans behind me.

Apparently...

He needed more coleslaw.

Two weeks later, I tried to tough it out.

I’d been out of the dish pit for a few months. I was making a couple extra bucks running fries.

Clock out by 5 or 6. Comedy show a few hours later.

Perfect, right?

Wrong.

I wasn’t about to take abuse from some chef who called me bro every ten minutes.

I had dignity.

(Which, to be fair, I would later lose after bombing on stage for the third consecutive night. But that's another trauma dump.)

Anyway — no amount of money was going to make me trauma-bond over frozen potato sticks.

I ended my shift, pulled out a footstool, climbed up, and shouted to my Sous Chef:

"I thought about it — and I fucking QUIT!"

I threw my hat dramatically into the hamper.

Big wave to the whole kitchen.

And for good measure, I shouted again, louder this time:

"BYE EVERYONE! I QUIT!"

Then I just... walked out.

Free.

Hatless.

Dignity still technically intact, if only for another twelve hours.

By my late twenties, I had grown.

I had learned.

And now, dear reader, I will share my wisdom:

Rage quitting isn't always the answer.

You need tact.

You need to plot.

You need to put in your two weeks like a good little cog and smile while dying inside.

Play by the rules. Make your exit. Secure your bag.

And most importantly:

Harbour all your anger and hate — and don't let anyone see it.

Because you're going to put dicks.

On.

Everything.

(Emotionally. Spiritually. Sometimes literally. Depends on the printer access.)

I did that when I worked at a little dispensary.

Selling cannabis sounds like a dream job — until you realize you're working for some of the biggest D-bags humanity ever spawned.

You thought breweries were bad? Full of bearded hipsters talking about mouthfeel while Devo records hang proudly behind the bar?

Child’s play.

Cannabis dispensary bros make craft beer guys look like Franciscan monks.

These guys acted like the weed they were selling was the best of the best.

Top shelf. Boutique. Life-changing.

Meanwhile — the little sperm beside me had never once lived through the true adventure:

Asking a friend if they had "a guy."

Calling that "guy."

Meeting some perfect stranger in a dimly lit parking lot or sketchy backyard.

(Jesus Christ, can we just take a moment to appreciate my continued aliveness.)

Back then, there was no bullshit about "Indica" or "Sativa."

No terpene charts. No tasting notes. No velvet pouches.

Just weed.

And you know what?

I always got high. Every damn time.

Between their total lack of understanding of what I shall now call "the old ways," and their constant hissy fits over the product not looking “perfect” on the shelf, I realized something:

This minimum wage job deserved a perfectly fitting send-off.

I was putting dicks everywhere.

The suggestion box?

Dicks.

The blank label rolls?

Unrolled and strategically blessed with random dicks.

Receipt paper?

Dick parade.

Sticky notes hidden on the bottom of products.

You wanna check out that fancy new vape rig?

Oh look! Surprise dick.

Printer paper?

You already know.

And, of course, on my last day — before I locked the doors behind me —

I changed my manager’s screensaver.

To Richard Nixon.

Just kidding.

It was a dick.

Am I older and wiser now?

Sure.

If not drawing dicks on company property counts as "wisdom."

I do enjoy my current job.

It's a big leap from comedic cannabis connoisseur to responsible adult.

In fact, between that point and now, I've done a little of everything:

Worked for a catering company.

Bartended. Line cooked... again.

Held down front desk at a rec center.

But for two solid years — I worked in film.

What a grand adventure that was.

Nothing says "respect and dignity" like eating your sad breakfast in the rain while the make-up girl screams about the lack of heat in her trailer.

Luckily, I didn’t burn any bridges with my crew.

They were cool.

But the film industry?

They love their hierarchy.

Almost as much as they love shouting about craft services.

So, after a few seasons of chasing dreams and dodging ego tantrums...

I left the entertainment industry behind.

And I became a welder. And until someone throws something metal at my head again...

I think I'll stick around.