When Martha contemplating dying, she could feel the dry, chalky flakes as her fingers swept over "Alas, poor Yorick's" skull." She could see the limp head of her pet sheltie Heather flop down as she lifted her to her chest for one last hug. She could smell the pungent citrus flavor as she opened the door to her grandmother's apartment, five days after poor Grandma died.
She could hear her boss talking about poor, dear, sweet Ellen, "We wish her well in her new endeavors."
Martha couldn't believe her ears. Ellen, the most productive, the most engaging software engineer in the whole group - the mother of the team, the oldest member of the gang, the one who always got us going to lunch together, and the one who kept the product going forward - canned. Like death, like the flicking out of a candle.
All of a sudden, and without warning, Monday at 3:30 p.m. Kram the boss pinged us for a meeting in a conference room. Funny thing, everyone was there, sitting around the table. We looked at each other. Every pair of eyes said, "Why the hell are we here?" And then it became weird, where the hell is Ellen? She was upstairs, she's here today. And then Kram said, "As of today, Ellen is no longer with the company."
No longer with the company. The dreaded undiplomatic, idiotic, moronic phrase. No longer with the company. Well, fuck you too. The company is no longer with reality. We fired her, that's what you meant to say? Well, Ellen was worthy of a hell of a lot better than that. No longer with the company. Well, guess what? Neither am I.
No more direct deposit, close checking account, sell house, live on the street. Never mind.
Back to death. The end of all nuisance, the end of all pain. Maybe those dry flakes on the skull of that dead alas-poor-Yorick don't feel quite so bad.
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