You ever have one of those days where you think, Surely the absurdity has peaked, and then the Universe, drunk off Fireball, whispers: Hold my beer?
That was my Wednesday.
My day starts with a meeting with my employee telling me this story about her aunt visiting her apartment. Her aunt notices bottles leaning on the stove ledge like some Jenga tower of flammable death. She gently says, “I don’t want to tell you what to do, but… that seems precarious.” And this girl—a grown-ass adult—bursts into tears and says:
“What is it with you adults not telling me things?! I NEED you to tell me! I’m a child for Christ’s sake. I should not have the level of responsibility I have. Someone tell me what to do!”
I’m crying laughing, but also, she’s right. We are all fucking groms. We’re all just kids pretending to be adults while our metaphorical bottles of gasoline lean against the stove, just praying someone yells, “HEY, you’re about to burn the house down!”
Right after this, I go into a meeting with my business partners. This meeting is literally about truth, which is hilarious because there was none. Two of us are living in one shared reality and the third one is in… fucking Narnia.
We’re like, “Hey, here’s reality. Just walk over here. We’re not even asking you to run!” But every time she gets close, she takes off in the opposite direction and builds a brand new universe. The nickname “free range chicken” exists for a reason.
To show how ridiculous this is, I bring up our role shift. In my reality, nothing really changed. I’ve been doing the job for years, the title just caught up. But in her reality? She’s telling the story like she bestowed the CEO crown upon me, holding it up like Simba on Pride Rock while a gospel choir sings. So I say, “Hey, could you just acknowledge I’ve been doing the job the whole time?” Five simple words. Lay it on me and let’s move forward. I’m stupidly hopeful and awaiting vindication!
She cannot do it. She’s dodging it like I asked her to delete her Netflix password, and instead of migrating toward the shared truth, she spirals into some shit about forgiveness. Suddenly, we’re unpacking HER feelings about MY forgiveness. At this point, I’m thinking: we’re not in a meeting, we’re in an emotional escape room and the only way out is “shared reality,” which she is using as a frisbee.
Oh, and this entire truth escape room is happening at a park. Halfway through, I smell dog shit. Can’t find it. Guess why? Because I’m sitting directly on it. Yeah. Full-contact dog shit, which honestly felt poetic. Like the Universe laughing, “Oh, you want a metaphor for what it’s like trying to drag someone out of their alternate reality? Here’s one you can smell for the rest of the day.”
Later, while walking back from the park totally confused about how many truth loops it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, I look down at my feet and realize I’m not even wearing the shoes I thought I put on that morning. I left the house positive I was in Birkenstocks. Hours later? Rainbow sandals. So now I’m out here lecturing people about living in alternate realities while I’m literally standing in one.
Hypocrisy: table for one!
Then my other employee texts asking to cancel a meeting because she “needs more time.” Which, not gonna lie, is a pattern. I take a screenshot to send to my business partner, the one with the shared reality, because we’re literally trying to retain a shared reality with the cluster fuck of a small business, with the caption: “Is she trying to get out of work again?”
Except… I send it. To. HER. The employee. Fuck my grandmother.
Do you know that moment when your soul leaves your body? That was me. She responds with a single ?—the most dangerous punctuation mark in the English language. I call her. Twice. No answer. Third time, she picks up. And I just have to own it: “Yeah, that text wasn’t meant for you. I fucked up. And yes, we talk about you. We talk about everyone. It’s literally our job.”
Leadership, baby! Where the glamour never stops.
I’m confessing this disaster to my business partner over the phone—you know, the one who should have received that text—when my truck, aka the world’s most expensive lawn ornament, completely shits the bed.
The dashboard lights up like it’s the flashing lights at a stupid silent disco. (And don’t even get me started on Gen Z’s ability to falsify connection and justify it. We’re all wearing headphones, vibing alone, and calling it community.)
It’s screaming: Battery saver active. Engine overheating. Vehicle may stall.
I barely coast into my driveway before the whole thing dies. Alternator pulley snaps, serpentine belt flies off, and basically every vital organ in the car gives me the middle finger at once. Even the truck was like, “Yeah, I’m out. No shared reality for me today, thanks.”
I finally make it home, unload this fever dream of a day, and cry. My husband hugs me and that’s when it hit me: this is why life is so goddamn funny. We’re all overcomplicated toddlers with mortgages.
We cling to our own “truths,” we dodge accountability like it’s dodgeball, we rewrite history to make ourselves look good, and sometimes we literally sit in shit because we can’t see what’s right under us.
And honestly? My employee who thought she needed wisdom from adults was dishing it out from the start.
We’re all just kids hoping someone will finally tell us what to do while the bottles tip precariously on the stove.
It’s absurd. It’s beautiful. And it’s why I can’t stop laughing, even when I want to scream.
Literally.
FUUUUUUUUUUCK.
Mic drop.
