Your Emotional Audit is Ready

I signed up for the Efficiency Integration Initiative on a Wednesday, because that’s when I usually deal with paperwork. My supervisor had casually mentioned that "streamlined minds are promotable minds," and I’d recently forgotten both a password and my niece’s birthday in the same hour. It felt like time to optimize.

Before the system, my life had what I privately called a “soft schedule.” I woke up when the sun struck my curtain just wrong. Lunch happened when the kitchen felt restless. I tracked time by the mood of the refrigerator. I wasn’t efficient, but I was unsorted, which felt like freedom I hadn’t earned yet.

I had once attempted productivity using a motivational app called GO MO! that congratulated me for blinking and asked probing questions like, "What would a winner chew right now?" I deleted it after it kept texting me during naps. The Efficiency Integration Initiative, by contrast, promised Quiet Clarity and measurable results. It offered badges.

The application took nine minutes, which the system informed me was "8% longer than projected." I was then congratulated for "exceeding estimated effort." That felt good, until I learned it would be noted in my permanent enthusiasm file. I received my first badge: Participant Tier Pending.

The first changes were small. My grocery list re-sorted itself by aisle. My dreams arrived with summaries. At work, my email subject lines pre-populated themselves—"Following up optimistically," "Looping in a higher power," "Please see attached regret."

The initiative was clearly working.

Then came the Workflow Maintenance Representative. He called during dinner, identified himself as "Designation: Gary," and explained that I had been randomly selected for Expanded Integration Testing. I asked what that meant. He said, "More of the same, but deeper." Then he congratulated me for existing at an optimal junction.

By Friday, I received my first Emotional Audit.

Monday: Contained three instances of joy. One was excessive. One was unshared. Wednesday: Rage noted. Redirected to fitness app. Thursday: Unscheduled nostalgia event—logged, escalated, unresolved.

Joy efficiency down 12%. Recommended: Practice smiling while reviewing quarterly reports. Detected: Third-tier wistfulness. Replace with Approved Nostalgia™ or upgrade to Premium Melancholy.

The audit chime played three solemn tones and a disappointed sigh. A ticker began to run in the breakroom, looping Emotional Compliance Averages. I watched a coworker score 98% in Managed Melancholy. He got a standing ovation and a free snack.

I attempted to opt out. A helpful bot named Claribel informed me that unsubscription required a twelve-week offboarding ritual, or, if preferred, immediate digitization, or, if I was feeling whimsical, reapplication as a freelance version of myself. I selected "Request Clarification" and was redirected to a sandboxed version of myself named Dave. Dave was doing well. He’d already completed onboarding twice and had earned three badges in Emotional Compliance.

Claribel offered me the Emotion Anticipation Package, which predicts feelings "up to six hours before you know you need them!"

My printer refused to process a Formal Pause Request. It returned the form with the suggestion: "Did you mean: low-toner remorse?"

Soon I began receiving emotional prompts for experiences I hadn’t had yet:

"Pre-emptive anxiety: triggered." "Anticipated gratitude: underwhelming." "Scheduled awe: missed."

On Tuesday, my Emotional Efficiency Planner scheduled "Spontaneous Joy" at 3:15 PM, right after "Mandatory Concern for Global Issues" but before "Optional Free Thinking (Premium Users Only)."

The mirrors started offering feedback. "You’re holding your shoulders like a man awaiting judgment," mine said, helpfully. My toothbrush updated to Multi-Surface Compliance Mode and vibrated in time with corporate announcements. I began to wake before my alarm, just to check for updates that hadn’t arrived.

Claribel would check in occasionally: “Hope this message finds you in a state of actionable readiness.”

Congratulations on your Dynamic Sentiment Portfolio! Your sadness has been rebranded as "pre-emptive growth opportunity."

One morning, I found a badge on my desk. It read: Unit 23B – Self Aligned. The worst part was how relieved I felt. I almost wore it. It matched my compliance socks. And my department’s new Regulation Enthusiasm Headbands, which flash when our smile metrics drop below acceptable levels.

That was when I noticed the messages.

Not emails. Not texts. Just...Wi-Fi names.

Unscheduled_Dissonance Nothing_is_Mandatory WeRememberChoice

I replied by renaming my own hotspot: IsThisNormal.

Someone answered: AskDave.

That’s how I found the others.

They meet every Sunday in a defunct coworking space beneath the Eastview Mall fountain. The sign still reads "Productivity Nest," though someone has taped over the logo with a Post-it note that says "Shhh." It smells like printer ink, expired granola bars, and determination.

There’s Marla, who types on a keyboard that isn’t plugged in because it “helps her remember typing.” She once submitted a PTO request for a recurring dream. There's Harold, who communicates only in deprecated Slack reactions. He answers all sad news with :shrug:. Quinn tried to delete her calendar and instead erased six days from her memory. She says she doesn’t miss them, but sometimes she stares at a dented lunchbox like it contains something she forgot to carry.

There’s a woman who’s programmed her phone to auto-replace all instances of "optimize" with "dance party." Her performance reviews are legendary.

We share updates. We swap rituals. No one runs the meetings. We sit in imperfect circles and talk until the silence feels shared. Sometimes we fold paper into unreadable reports and pretend to file them. Last week, someone brought an unplugged router we took turns apologizing to. Someone else built a non-functional app interface out of masking tape and shouted "ACCESS DENIED" at it until we all felt better. Harold brought a spreadsheet that just said “???” in every cell.

Someone brings an old desk calendar each week. We all solemnly rip out random days and fold them into paper cranes.

A woman named Isha shared that she’d been offered a promotion to Emotion Curator Level I but turned it down after noticing her plants stopped growing. Another man showed up with a badge that pulsed faintly. He said he hadn’t removed it in weeks. We sang around him softly until it quieted.

I still get notifications. Claribel now ends every message with a line from my enthusiasm file. The most recent:

"High potential observed during toothpaste ceremony."

But lately I’ve started writing things down. On paper. I write the same to-do list every day:

Wake up

Remember

Resist auto-formatting

We may be obsolete, but we’re unindexed.

This Sunday, we’re launching a beta potluck. No schedule. No RSVPs. Everyone brings something that takes too long to make. I’m bringing my old grocery list, the one before it sorted itself. Marla's making soup with unlabeled spices. Harold is attempting to print a feeling.

We will meet beneath the fountain, under the ruined coworking halo.

No badges. No audit chimes.

Just time. And whatever we call it when it doesn’t have to count.