I Hate My Boss

I Hate My Boss

Blake had been staring at the same video timeline for over an hour. Cuts, transitions, color grading—it was all blurring into one headache-inducing mess. His coffee was cold, his desk cluttered, and his patience nearly gone. Sunday used to mean rest. Now it was just another deadline.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his unkempt hair. The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of his laptop and the occasional creak from the ceiling fan overhead. Outside, the city buzzed with life, but Blake was chained to his editing software, shaping chaos into content. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn’t even appreciated.

Ping.

A Discord notification popped up in the corner of his screen.

Tim: Hey Blake, when will my videos be ready?

No “hey man,” no “how’s the edit going?” Just straight to business. Blake rolled his eyes. He cracked his knuckles and typed:

Blake: I don’t know. I’m still working on them. Soon?

Tim: How soon is soon?

Of course. “Soon” was never soon enough for Tim. The guy wanted viral videos overnight, even though all he gave Blake were hours of disorganized footage and half-baked ideas. Blake took a breath and replied:

Blake: Soon. Just trust me.

Tim: Okay… I’m not paying you till you get this video out and posted.

Blake blinked at the screen. He sat up, brows furrowed.

Blake: What!?

Tim: What? It’s not like you’re doing the work here.

That was it. The audacity. The pure disrespect. Blake clenched his fists. His job wasn’t glamorous, but it sure as hell was work. Long hours, low pay, no credit—and now this?

Blake: Me!? Not doing work!? Tim, I might kill you for what you just said.

There was a pause. Maybe Tim was typing. Or maybe he was just grinning at his phone, thinking he was being clever.

Tim: I swear, your job is super easy. You’re just lazy.

Blake let out a dry laugh. Lazy? That word rattled in his skull like a personal attack. He’d been up past midnight all week editing "I Survived on Hot Sauce for 24 Hours" into something halfway presentable. Lazy?

Blake: Me, lazy!?

Tim: Yeah.

That did it.

Blake: You give me sixty-four gigabytes of footage every week so I can edit and send it out to YouTube. Half of your content is complete bullshit!

He wasn’t exaggerating. Most of it was unusable—shaky camera angles, repeated takes, poor audio, and moments where Tim was just rambling about crypto or yelling at his roommates. Blake had to polish garbage into gold, and Tim barely noticed.

Tim: People like what they see. I’m like fake Mr. Beast.

Fake Mr. Beast. Blake felt his soul leave his body. The comparison was laughable. Tim didn’t donate to charity or plan out huge challenges. He bought a hundred chicken nuggets and filmed himself crying.

Blake: God, Tim, you are so full of yourself… You know what? I quit.

His heart pounded. The moment the message sent, something inside him unknotted.

Tim: So you’re just gonna walk out on me like this?

Blake: Yeah.

Tim: Where’s your respect?

Blake stared at the screen in disbelief. Respect? That word again.

Blake: How do you expect me to respect you when all you do is treat me like shit?

Tim: Just sayin… I paid you pretty good for those videos.

Blake: No you didn’t! You paid me fifty dollars per video. We post once a week, and you always keep the extra money from sponsors!

He remembered every time Tim mentioned getting paid—$200 here, $500 there. Blake saw none of it. He was lucky to get enough to cover groceries.

Tim: Could be worse.

Could be worse. That was Tim’s favorite saying, like a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. Blake slammed his laptop shut. Enough.

Blake: UGH!

Fueled by a surge of frustration and fire, Blake grabbed his bag. Headphones. Hard drives. That old camera lens he still hadn’t sold. Everything went in.

Tim: You know what, just pack your shit and go.

Blake: I will.

Buzz.

Tim: Chop chop, muffin top.

Blake froze. His hand was on the doorknob. He turned, eyes narrowed.

“Shut up,” he whispered under his breath. Then typed it.

Blake: Shut up.

He walked out.

The hallway outside his apartment was quiet, bathed in the golden haze of late afternoon. With each step, the weight on his shoulders lightened. He stepped outside, breathing in the crisp air, feeling something he hadn’t felt in weeks: freedom.

He walked aimlessly, ending up at a small park. Kids played on a jungle gym, and someone strummed a guitar in the distance. Blake sat on a bench and let himself be still.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t stressed. He wasn’t underpaid. He wasn’t invisible.

He was Blake—editor, creator, storyteller.

And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t need Tim at all. Blake sat on that park bench longer than he meant to. The longer he was out in the open air, the more he realized how trapped he’d felt over the past year. Working under Tim wasn’t just exhausting—it was soul-crushing. It was waking up to a barrage of texts, falling asleep to deadline anxiety, and living in a cycle of “almost good enough.”

He watched a golden retriever chase a tennis ball across the grass. Its owner clapped and laughed, calling it back with a proud grin. That was real joy. Real enthusiasm. Not the forced, over-edited reactions Tim made him splice together from ten takes.

Blake reached into his bag and pulled out his phone. Notifications blinked, mostly from Tim. He didn't even read them. He just opened his settings and, with a satisfying flick of his finger, blocked the number. Silence.

It felt like turning off a blaring alarm clock after a nightmare.

He thought about everything he could do now. He had editing skills. He had patience, creativity, and—despite what Tim said—work ethic. What he didn’t have was a platform. But maybe that could change. Blake had always toyed with the idea of starting his own channel. Not flashy, not clickbait—just real, honest storytelling. Short films. Behind-the-scenes edits. Maybe tutorials for people just starting out.

For once, the idea didn’t seem ridiculous. It seemed right.

His phone buzzed again—this time a message from Ava, an old film school friend.

Ava: Still stuck with that YouTube clown?

He laughed and replied.

Blake: Not anymore. I just quit.

A minute passed. Then:

Ava: About time. Hey—I’m working on a docuseries and we need a solid editor. You down for a call tomorrow?

Blake stared at the message, a slow grin spreading across his face.

Blake: Absolutely.

As the sun dipped behind the city skyline, Blake stood up, bag slung over his shoulder and a new kind of energy in his step. Maybe losing this job wasn’t a failure. Maybe it was the best thing that could’ve happened to him.

Because sometimes, walking out isn't weakness—it's power.

And for the first time in a long time, Blake felt powerful.