The email I imagine my boss sent around the office after I quit my job last summer to “become a writer.”
I know you’re going to miss her bright hangovers on Thursdays, Fridays, and even Wednesday mornings, but Florence has decided to abandon her 401K to move back to suburbia with her parents. So brave. We will remember her fondly at least until the end of the week. Never have we had an employee use the bathroom so frequently in a sixty-minute time frame nor single handedly eat all the Twix bars from the vending machine. (Will someone please remember to tell the new assistant to tell Gary he can resume a restock schedule of every other week?)
As you all witnessed, Florence gave New York City an honest try, but felt too uncomfortable in the company of rats, cockroaches and museums to fully thrive. Totally get it. In addition to the inundation of vermin and culture, Florence realized she wasn’t quite comfortable with authority. She prefers to be called “Sweetie,” which has lead her to the conclusion that her personality is best suited for relationships with loving aunts and the elderly, rather than bosses and colleagues.
As sad as we are to see her go, we knew something had to change when we found her crying in the bathroom about not being able to pursue her passions. “I want to take a macramé class and brew kombucha,” she’d wailed. Having logged innumerable hours on Microsoft Outlook, the elliptical, and the subway, we hope Florence will now have time to do more Instagram worthy things. Though we were surprised when she handed in her letter of resignation the week after we hired her, after a quick vote, we all agreed to love the card stock she chose from that Brooklyn start up that only uses invisible materials. Such taste.
We’re really excited for Florence and feel this giant step backward is one of many on her true path. Indeed from the moment she interviewed with us, we knew Florence would make a great unemployed millennial and we wish her nothing but the best in this new role.
x’s and z’s
(so many z’s)
Maybe it’s an ocean swim, summer rain, strong coffee,
to hear my mother’s voice back when she could save me.
Maybe it is love, the filament in every lightening bulb: the juice, the nectar, the buzz.
Every season a peach falls in winter only because it didn’t know it couldn’t, but to tell you the truth my lips are cracked.
I don’t know if you were right or I was wrong, and anyway maybe
it’s not what you give, it’s how you apply it
Gently now, honey, where the skin is torn.
JK, if anything it was the sweater that didn’t get me laid.