A Letter to the Slave-Driving Supervisor

Dear Supervisor,

I think enough of my hair has fallen out for me to finally feel comfortable enough to tell you that I am frikkin overworked and stressed the hell out! Between the thousands of phone calls, emails, and unexpected deadlines; not to mention taking on the responsibilities of those employees who have been fired; are out sick; or simply too overwhelmed to complete their own assignments; I must admit that I rather like my hair and would like to keep it just a little while longer before old age takes the privilege away from me.

As if coming to work isn’t hard enough in itself, especially after having dealing with the hard blows that life can throw at you , I have to come into the office and fall behind in my workload to attend 3 hour staff meetings and sit through meetings to discuss what’s going to be discussed in the next meeting.


While my colleagues are freely attending extended 2 hour lunches, I have approximately 22 minutes to eat, digest and shit before the next emergency arises and my ulcer once again rips through the lining of my stomach. The bags under my eyes from lack of sleep are heavy enough to carry a load of nervous tension as I twitch uncontrollably and break out into hives when I hear your high heels stomping towards the entrance of my office. Hiding for the sake of sanity is my first inclination, however there’s no time permitted on my calendar, as poking my eyeballs out with a number 2 pencil has taken up all of what’s left of my free time.

I’m not writing this letter to complain about the 200% increase in work, the disrespect of those needy ass coworkers who only come to me when they require something while ironically forgetting my name, or the fact that the cafeteria serves yesterday’s coffee every day and always seems to run out of sugar when I’ve finally found enough energy to drag myself by the collar to the coffee pot. I’m writing this letter to you to say, “Help.” Help me to understand why my outstanding performance evaluation has omitted me from getting the change in job title, the slightly bigger broom-closeted corner office, or the pay increase to match the duties I’ve collected since the last 5 – 7 employees left the company. Help me to understand why our department rests on the top floor when studies show that people inflicted with heavy amounts of stress are inclined to jump out of a window in hopes to land in the middle of a busy intersection. Help me to understand why when it comes time to offer kudos, Jane and John’s names are the first to be called when I’m the one who scarred myself to write the proposals, the memos, the cover letters, the charts and graphs, the powerpoint presentations and even ordered the ink pens that they penned their John Hancocks with.

Even now, as I write this letter to you, I must cut my time short because I only have 37 seconds to run to the bathroom, pee quickly and get to the conference room for the staff meeting that I’ve only been invited to because someone is needed to carry the heavy boxes of reports that’s going to be passed out to the rest of the team.

It’s not that I don’t love my job, because I do. I just want to live long enough to appreciate and enjoy it and buy the donuts that my small paychecks can only afford. You guys are killing me slowly. I implore you – HELP!  Hire a temp; build another me out of match sticks and Elmer’s glue.  Hell, I don’t care! But pretty soon there’s not going to be enough of me to go around because I’ll be buried somewhere 6 feet under a pile of manila folders.

Sincerely,

Your most humble, gracious and dedicated employee
with only ½ a head of full hair.

P.S.,

You have a call on line 2.


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2 thoughts on “A Letter to the Slave-Driving Supervisor

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