I Quit!

To Whom It May Concern (presumably one of the sentient cacti in HR):

I am writing this letter to formally tender my resignation from Invertech Solutions Inc., effective immediately, or whenever the office stops spinning sideways on Wednesdays. I’ve tried to make this decision with clarity, rational thought, and at least three kinds of herbal tea, but alas, no chamomile in this universe could prepare me for the continuing existential carnival that is working at Invertech.

When I first applied, I assumed “based in the Bramuta Triangle” was a typo. Or a marketing gimmick. Or perhaps a quaint metaphor. It was not.

From my very first day, when I was onboarded via an interpretive dance by six cloaked figures in an upside-down breakroom full of ceiling chairs and humming taxidermied pelicans, I knew I had made a mistake. I tried to remain optimistic. “Maybe,” I thought, “this is just the corporate culture.” But culture implies logic. Culture implies structure. This was something else entirely. This was chaos with a pension plan.

Let’s talk about the workspaces, shall we?

My first office was on fire. Not “inspiring startup hustle” fire. Literal fire. But, in reverse. Flames flowed down into the desk, un-burning the wood into a moist pile of tree mush and sadness. I asked for a transfer, and HR (who I’m still convinced are just seven squirrels in a trench coat named Barbara) moved me to the Greyscale Room, where everything was saturated in anti-color. It was like living in a 1932 cartoon that hated you.

My third office was perfect until I realized the room existed in a time loop, repeating every 36 minutes but only on odd-numbered days. I relived a coworker spilling soup on my keyboard at least 72 times before I began having stress dreams in Morse code.

Let’s not forget the clients.

Have you ever tried to write a proposal for a sentient cloud of whispers who communicates only via weather changes and disapproving glances? I have. His name is Mr. Nimbus, and he thinks PowerPoints are offensive. One time, I was cc’d on an email thread with three identical clients named Dennis, who each spoke in riddles and demanded conflicting invoices paid in either gemstones or feelings of nostalgia.

And the rules! My God, the rules.

We are not allowed to make eye contact with anyone on the third floor, because “they are quantum observers and might collapse our probability fields.”

We must clock in using the scent of a memory.

Casual Fridays mean formalwear only, but worn emotionally casual. Try figuring that out when your blazer has opinions.

There was one day—ONE DAY—I thought I had finally gotten the hang of it. I submitted my TPS report in invisible ink on a sheet of forgotten dreams (as required), survived the hallway with gravity fluctuations, and successfully navigated the infinite water cooler conversation. Then, Dave from Accounting turned into a goat mid-meeting, and no one. Said. A. Word.

That broke me a little, I won’t lie.

It’s not all bad. There are parts of Invertech I’ll miss:

The coffee machine that dispenses both espresso and forbidden knowledge.

The lunchroom fridge that whispers everyone’s secrets when you open it too slowly.

The annual company retreat, which, while taking place entirely in a pocket dimension made of fog and duck feathers, was surprisingly well-catered.

But at some point, I had to ask myself: Is this healthy? Should my emotional well-being be dictated by a job where Casual Friday is judged by mood ring and employee reviews are conducted in a mirror by your reflection?

I have stapled this letter to the space-time rift next to the breakroom, per tradition. I will also be releasing one helium balloon infused with my resignation aura to the upper atmosphere, as outlined in Section 17B of the Employee Handbook (which, I remind you, is written entirely in iambic pentameter and stored inside a ceramic moose).

Please send my final paycheck to the dimension formerly known as Ohio. And for the love of all that is good and Euclidean, tell Brenda from IT that the elevators do not go to Floor Purple. I don't know what she saw there. But she hasn’t stopped crying glitter.

It’s time for me to go. To step out into the real world, where desks are horizontal, coffee does not whisper, and people don’t teleport mid-conversation unless they really don’t like you.

Thank you for the memories. And the mild paranoia. And the non-euclidean dental plan.

Sincerely,

Jasper Thorne

Senior Reality Architect / Unwilling Possessor of the Eternal Lanyard

Employee #00001-Zebra-Moon