I quit.

I helped a friend draft a letter of resignation. 

It's exactly what they want to say, but I'm guessing they'll do some major editing before submitting it. In fact, they're probably only gonna use the first line.

Dear [Boss],

I’m resigning from my position, effective [date].

If this comes as a surprise, it says more about the state of leadership here than I know how to explain politely.

I'm leaving because I care enough about the rest of my life to stop donating it to a workplace that has mistaken endurance for engagement.

I want to spend my time doing things that don't require a twelve-person meeting to determine whether an email should be sent. I want to work somewhere that understands that “urgent” is supposed to be an occasional adjective, not a permanent operating system. I want to be around people who understand that creativity needs oxygen, that good ideas rarely emerge from exhausted people staring at dashboards, and that human beings are not software licenses that can simply be reassigned when someone leaves.

Most importantly, I want to remember what it feels like to finish a day without mentally drafting my resignation letter.

For years you’ve told me I’m a “team player,” which I eventually learned means I’m willing to do the work of three people while being thanked for my “flexibility.” If you could’ve, you would’ve rated me “exceeds” on “exploitability” … you love the way I absorb disfunction quietly.  In my last review, you asked, “What do I think I’ve improved on this past year?” My answer: “My ability to pivot in dynamic situations.” I worded that carefully to avoid saying: “My ability to survive the absolute chaotic clusterfuck of your creation.”

I’ve pivoted, adapted, collaborated, reprioritized, embraced ambiguity, and demonstrated resilience. Although these were presented as professional development opportunities, they were just increasingly creative ways of saying, “We’re intentionally not staffing properly and exploiting the current team, expecting them to suck it up and grin and bear it.”

This organization has dashboards, metrics, performance frameworks, strategic priorities, and enough corporate vocabulary to launch a satellite, yet somehow remains unable to identify the obvious: people eventually stop tolerating being overworked, under-resourced, and undervalued.

I’ve raised concerns. I’ve adapted. I’ve solved problems I didn’t create. I’ve cleaned up messes I didn’t make. And every time I did, the system learned the same lesson: [First Name] can handle it. Well, now I’m going to stop handling it. I'm done. This organization is just not my cup of tea (I don’t take my tea with large chunks of shit in it).

So “Goodbye, Boss” and congratulations to you: You get to graduate from “boss” to “some asshole I used to work for.”

Respectfully,

[First Name]

_________________________

If you see a resignation in your future, feel free to use this to leave your position with flare.

When Autumn Falls

I'll Be Ready When Autumn Falls
(with apologies to Ogden Nash)

I do not fear the chilly call of autumn.

Sweaters, rakes, and scarves? I’ve bought ‘em.

The leaves may plummet, orange and gold,

I'll meet them bundled against the cold.

Though frankly, if I'm being candid,

My readiness is mostly branded:

Cause if summer ends with a stormy sky,

I’ll be inside with hot cider and pumpkin pie.

AI for Students

 

Universities are concerned about AI cheating.
But the problem isn’t AI.

AI just held up a mirror. 

We’ve built a culture obsessed with outputs while neglecting the critical thinking needed to produce them. More content. More credentials. More polished little rectangles for LinkedIn. Meanwhile people are walking around undereducated.

So, I suggest universities return to oral exams.

If a student can’t sit in a room and explain what they think (clearly, spontaneously, and without consulting a prediction machine trained on the internet’s compost heap) then what exactly are we measuring? Formatting skills? Citation choreography?

Oral exams test whether knowledge has actually entered the person. Can you explain something clearly? Can you defend an idea without collapsing into a haze of jargon? Can you think while another human being is looking directly at you? You can hear understanding in real time.

As a writer, I believe that writing matters. Good writing sharpens thought and should be aggressively taught. But modern academia has built systems to generate, grade, summarize, and value documents nobody actually wants to read … bureaucratic fog with footnotes.

Then AI arrived and said, “You mean this counts as intelligence? Hold my beer.”

Educational institutions should start asking: “Has this person become wiser?” instead of: “Can this person generate acceptable artifacts at scale?” Oral examinations should be part of answering the former. They require presence, and you can’t outsource presence. You either know what you’re talking about or you don’t.

The real purpose of education was never supposed to be producing polished effluvia on command. It was supposed to build a human being, someone more thoughtful, articulate, perceptive, difficult to fool.

That’s much harder to fake live.

_________________________

Using AI in education is like using a forklift at the gym.
The weights do not actually need to be moved from place to place.
That is not the work. The work is what happens in you.
- Sam Halpert

_________________________

Other posts on education (from the eyes of a writer):

Are we teaching our kids to memorize or to understand?

We Need Education Reform

Labor Day Rant

 

Labor Day has morphed from a celebration of workers into an opportunity to convince me that I need a new mattress with retailers proclaiming Labor Day as the Super Bowl of horizontal living. "Celebrate America's workers by purchasing a queen-size memory foam sleep system!" I wasn't aware my appreciation for the labor movement hinged on whether or not my spine was cradled nightly by individually wrapped coils.

And why are appliances involved? Refrigerators. Washers. Dryers. Somewhere along the line, someone looked at a holiday about workers' rights and said, "You know what this really needs? A stainless steel dishwasher with fingerprint-resistant technology."

Then there's the weather. Labor Day exists in that awkward moment where nature can't commit to a season. It's 94 degrees at noon, 61 by sunset, and every weather app is shrugging its digital shoulders. Do I wear shorts? A hoodie? Both? Am I attending a barbecue or preparing for an alpine expedition?

But somewhere beneath all the sales flyers, clearance racks, and "last chance for summer" countdowns is the actual reason the holiday exists: recognizing the people who build things, fix things, teach things, grow things, deliver things, clean things, and somehow keep society functioning despite Wi-Fi that mysteriously stops working the moment someone says, "This'll only take a second."

That's worth remembering. But marketers saw a meaningful holiday and collectively responded, "Interesting. What if we made couches 25% off?"

I'm not against a day off. I support naps. I support grilled food. I even support buying stuff. I just find it fascinating how every holiday eventually passes through the same machine: Take something with history. Add balloons, giant SALE banners, and an email subject line in all caps. Stir until the original meaning becomes a footnote beneath free shipping.

Happy Labor Day.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to honor the dignity of work by avoiding it for exactly one day ... while deleting seventeen promotional emails reminding me that time is running out on the biggest sale of the season.