No Talent Bitchwhore Hag

Dearest Mary,

In my 9 month tenure here, I have grown from lurking in the far reaches of your awesome powers and wisdom, respecting your great intellect and compassionate command of your field, cowering behind your mighty resume and publishing accomplishments, to fearing your twitchy eye, your bellow, your amazing knack for condescension, micromanagement, vindictiveness, disrespect, passive-aggressiveness, and most of all, sheer ineptness and incompetence in the broad realms of human management.

I took this job because I was truly passionate about the causes in which you place your drive and passion. Because I, a lowly 20-something, should be so lucky, to be taken under your wing and grand expertise. I thought nothing of the shitty pay and dismal hours, because I was enchanted with the prospects of working at a job for more than the paycheck, for believing in my work, and seeing real application and results for my slaving.

You have categorically set about to abuse me from the get go. You have single-handedly reduced me to a snivelling paranoid three-year-old. Because of your mindgames, I am afraid to tell my father the state of my life, while at a cafe, a good 10 miles from anywhere you might happen to spread your bile. Because of your paranoia, and miscalculated power-trips, I'm afraid I might be overheard, exaggerated, and tattled on, all of which in some way might possible diminish your platinum image in the eyes of any of the Deans, which, take your pick, you surreptitiously kiss their ass.

I have never, in my small time on this earth, experienced anyone with such a backward idea of mutual respect. You have ignored me, you have criticized my judgment when I fulfill your meaningless tasks, you have questioned my capabilities at every turn. All of which you've done through any number of intermediaries, because it does not behoove you to communicate in any sort of remotely direct manner with me. You have exerted your power to reduce me to a muted pile of doubts and anger at your feet. You have used every opening to make it as difficult to do my job. You have demanded to see every single piece of work which I have produced, you have edited, you have re-edited, and wailed that I never seek your official approval on anything I do. You have dismissed me as incompetent when I ask for clarification, you have argued snidely that I am arrogant when I self start.

You have given me a perpetual fear of the sound of flip-flops and skin-cancer.

No, I don't give a damn about your perfect little daughter's perfect little life. No, I don't give a damn about how much of a martyr you are, and how many hours you work. And no, I don't give a damn whether things are 10 or 11.5 point font.

I'm no longer sorry for whatever freak of nature denied you attention in your childhood. You have spawned my pity, you have spawned my optimism, so now, mostly, I wish you a large hole to fall into, so as to limit your contact with any living creature. You do not deserve any more.