People Feel Like A Failure In These Revenge Stories

Back in my military days in the early 80s, I worked in the tech division handling data systems. We were transitioning from clunky mainframes to what was then cutting-edge Unix systems.

Most officers understood the limitations we faced, but then there was Major Luis.

Luis was that special kind of officer who knew just enough tech jargon to be dangerous. He’d corner you in the break room with gems like, “Hand-coded assembly will always outperform C code,” delivered with the confidence of someone who’d never actually written either.

I’d nod and add something like, “Depends on the programmer’s skill, sir,” and he’d agree, completely missing that I’d just contradicted him.

I’d created this visualization program for tracking defense contractor spending that everyone loved.

It used a specialized Tektronic plasma display terminal – basically a screen that could hold an image without refreshing, allowing you to overlay multiple data sets. For classified data analysis, it was genuinely useful.

Major Luis saw my program during a briefing and immediately wanted one for his department.

Fair enough – I extended the code to handle his data format, set it up, and showed him how to use it. He was thrilled, at first.

But then came the request that would make my week miserable.

“I need to print these charts,” he announced one morning, pointing at the glowing green visualization.

“Sir, this data is classified.

Printing requires a secure chain of custody from the central printer facility to your office. They only do deliveries once daily.”

He frowned, clearly disliking any answer that wasn’t an immediate yes. Then his face lit up with what he thought was brilliance.

He led me to the corner of his office and pointed proudly at an ancient IBM Selectric typewriter/printer.

“This connects to the secure network,” he said. “Just make it print here.”

I tried explaining why this was a terrible idea.

“Sir, that machine has extremely limited capabilities. The output would be… problematic.”

“I’ll be the judge of what’s problematic,” he replied with that special smirk that only comes from outranking someone.

“Get it done.”

Years in service had taught me when to fight and when to maliciously comply. “I’ll need that request in writing, sir. Department policy.”

He sent the email that afternoon.

For the next week, I holed up in my office figuring out how to render complex data visualizations using only periods, asterisks, slashes and dashes on a typewriter that was never designed for graphics.

It was like trying to paint the Sistine Chapel with a hammer, but I eventually cobbled together a functional solution.

When everything was ready, I went to Major Luis’s office for the grand unveiling.

“Your printing feature is ready, sir,” I announced.

His face lit up like a kid at Christmas.

He pulled up his data set, created a beautiful visualization on the plasma screen, and then proudly tapped the new “Print Display” button with his stylus.

Then we waited.

After about thirty seconds, the Selectric hummed to life.

It printed the header information – date, classification level, and his name. Then it advanced two lines.

Silence.

Then: *space space space space space space*

Finally, it typed a single dot.

It advanced one line.

More silence.

Then: *space space space space* “.

.”

Major Luis looked at the printer, then at me, his expression shifting from excitement to confusion. “Why is it so slow?”

“Sir, the IBM Selectric has a data buffer of exactly 64 bytes,” I explained calmly.

“What does that mean?” He was getting irritated now.

“It means the printer can only hold 64 characters of data at once.

It has to request each tiny chunk from the mainframe, wait for approval through the security protocols, receive the data, print it, and then start over. For a full page visualization… well, it might take a couple hours.”

He stared at the printer as it laboriously placed another dot, then back at the beautiful, instantly-rendered plasma display.

“Can you make it faster?” he asked, his voice suddenly less commanding.

“No sir, that would require hardware upgrades that would violate security protocols for classified data.”

Three dots and about five minutes later, he sighed.

“Cancel the print job.”

“Are you sure, sir? It’s already started the process. The first row is almost complete.”

He looked at the paper, which now had exactly seven dots spread across the page.

“Yes, cancel it.

And remove that feature.”

I bit my tongue to avoid smiling. “As you wish, sir.”

Two days later, I saw Major Luis showing off my visualization program to a Colonel, proudly explaining how the digital display was “much more efficient than wasting paper.” When he caught my eye across the room, he actually gave me a respectful nod.

Sometimes the best way to teach someone about technological limitations is to let them experience those limitations firsthand.

Major Luis never questioned my technical recommendations again.

Let me tell you about the time I trolled my company’s big innovation contest and it completely backfired on me.

I’ve been working at MegaScreen Cinemas for about three years now as a shift manager.

It’s one of those jobs that pays the bills but doesn’t exactly fill you with purpose, you know? The owners are this faceless corporation that’s always looking for ways to squeeze more profit without actually improving anything for the employees.

So when corporate announced their big ‘Innovation Challenge’ last month, I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly strained something.

The premise was simple: submit your best idea to improve the company, and if selected, you’d get a measly $1000 bonus while they potentially make millions off your creativity. Yeah, right.

My colleague Matthew was super excited about it though.

“Dude, I’ve got this killer idea about a subscription model for our theaters,” he told me during break. “I’m going to work on my proposal all weekend!”

I nodded along, but inside I was thinking how ridiculous it was that we were all supposed to bend over backward for the chance at what amounted to maybe two weeks’ worth of pay.

Meanwhile, our regional director Paul drives a new luxury car every year.

At first, I was just going to ignore the whole thing, but then I had a better idea. What if I submitted something so professionally presented yet absolutely bonkers that some poor corporate drone would have to waste hours of their life reviewing it?

A little petty revenge for all the unpaid overtime and “mandatory fun” company events.

I spent a full weekend crafting the most elaborate, detailed business proposal for what I called “BarkView Cinema” — a premium theater experience designed specifically for dogs and their owners.

The proposal included market research (completely made up), profit projections (wildly optimistic), implementation strategies, and even mock-ups of special canine seating arrangements.

I created detailed plans for “Paw-pcorn” and other dog-friendly concessions. I addressed potential concerns about cleanliness with a straight face, suggesting special training for ushers in “rapid response clean-up techniques” and “strategic placement of artificial turf zones.”

The pièce de résistance was my suggestion for a curated film lineup featuring classics like “The Canine Connection,” “Paws & Effect,” and the imaginary box office hit “Barking Mad: A Tail of Adventure.”

I even included a section about the psychological benefits of dogs watching movies with specific color palettes and sound frequencies (all complete nonsense, of course).

The whole thing ran to eleven pages of the most professional-looking garbage I’ve ever created.

I formatted it beautifully, created charts and graphs, and even threw in some fake testimonials from “focus group participants” like Quinn and her Golden Retriever or Ryan and his Pug.

When I submitted it through the company portal, I felt this giddy sense of accomplishment.

Someone in corporate would have to read this entire thing with a straight face, probably make notes, maybe even discuss it in a meeting. The thought made my soul happy.

Two weeks later, I’d almost forgotten about the whole thing when I got an email from Louis Davidson, the Vice President of Operations.

My heart sank. Was I about to get fired for wasting company resources?

The email asked if I was available for a video call that afternoon to “discuss my innovative proposal in more detail.”

I spent the entire day sweating bullets.

By the time the call rolled around, I had rehearsed about fifteen different ways to say it was all just a misunderstanding.

When I joined the call, I was surprised to see not just Louis, but Valerie from Marketing and Savannah from Business Development as well.

They all looked… enthusiastic?

“Nicholas,” Louis began, “we wanted to personally congratulate you on one of the most creative submissions we’ve received.”

I blinked in confusion. “Uh, thank you?”

“Initially, we thought you were joking,” Valerie chimed in, “but the more we discussed it, the more we realized you might be onto something unique here.”

For the next thirty minutes, they proceeded to tell me how they’d taken my ridiculous dog cinema concept and evolved it into what they were calling “Family Paw Day” — a monthly special event where people could bring well-behaved pets to select screenings.

“The millennial and Gen Z demographics are increasingly treating their pets as family members,” Savannah explained, showing me slides of market research that apparently validated this insanity.

“We’re looking at a significant untapped market here.”

I sat there, mouth slightly open, as they detailed how they were planning a pilot program at three locations, with special seat covers, designated clean-up staff, and a partnership with a premium pet food brand for sponsored concessions.

“And of course,” Louis said with a big smile, “as the originator of this concept, we’d like to offer you the opportunity to help implement the pilot program.

There would be a promotion involved, naturally, along with the innovation bonus.”

I managed to stammer out something that sounded like agreement, and the call ended with them sending over details about my new role and a meeting next week to begin planning.

As soon as I hung up, I burst into hysterical laughter.

My attempt to waste corporate time had somehow landed me a promotion and a bonus. The most ridiculous part? I think the idea might actually work. People are weird about their pets, and I can totally see them paying extra to bring their dogs to a special screening.

So now I’m the company’s new “Director of Specialty Viewing Experiences,” all because I tried to be a jerk.

My friend Nevaeh says it’s karma working in reverse — my attempt at mild corporate sabotage accidentally turned into genuine innovation.

I guess the moral of the story is: sometimes even your most ridiculous ideas might have merit.

Or maybe it’s that corporate America is so desperate for new ways to make money that even joke proposals can look viable. Either way, I’m getting business cards with my new title, and I’ve never been more confused about whether I’ve won or lost at life.

I spent almost five years working as a floor manager at Max’s Fine Furnishings in this upscale college town where half the population thought their money entitled them to treat retail workers like servants.

But my boss Max? He was something else entirely.

Max was in his sixties, owned the place for thirty years, and had this perfect balance of amazing customer service and absolute zero tolerance for entitled behavior. He’d bend over backwards for nice customers – free delivery, rush orders, custom requests – but the second someone got nasty?

That’s when his creative side came out.

This one Saturday back in 1998, we were slammed. The showroom was packed with people buying sofas and dining sets for their kids heading to college. I was handling this guy in an expensive suit who’d been complaining about our prices for twenty minutes straight.

No matter what I offered, he kept pushing for more discounts.

“These prices are highway robbery,” he huffed, tapping his finger on the price tag of our best-selling leather sectional. “I know for a fact I can get this cheaper elsewhere.”

I gave him my practiced smile.

“Sir, we price match with written quotes, but I can assure you our quality–”

“I’ve heard enough of this nonsense,” he interrupted. “Give me your phone book. I’m going to call your competitors right now.”

We kept a community phone book at the front counter for customers to use – remember, this was way before smartphones.

I hesitated, but he could clearly see the yellow pages sitting there, so I handed it over.

He flipped to the yellow pages, muttering under his breath about teaching us a lesson. I watched as he went through the alphabet: E… F… and then he frowned.

He flipped back and forth several times.

“What kind of phone book is this? There’s no furniture section. It jumps from ‘Funeral Services’ straight to ‘Gardening Supplies.'”

I leaned over to look, genuinely confused at first.

Then I noticed the ragged edges near the binding – tiny remnants of torn-out pages. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

Max had apparently gotten so tired of people using our resources to find our competitors that he’d just removed those pages entirely.

It was petty, hilarious, and somehow brilliant all at once.

“That’s strange,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “Must be a misprint in this edition.”

The guy glared at me like I was in on some conspiracy.

“Do you have another phone book?”

“I’m afraid that’s our only copy,” I said. Which was true – Max had made sure of that.

The customer threw the phone book down on the counter.

“This is ridiculous! I’ll just go find these places myself.”

“Best of luck,” I said cheerfully as he stormed out.

When things quieted down later, I asked Max about the missing pages. He just winked at me.

“Look, Jade,” he said, “I provide the best service and fair prices.

I’ll match any legitimate competitor’s offer. But I’m not gonna help entitled jerks use my own phone book to waste my time negotiating made-up prices. If they want to comparison shop, they can drive around town or get their own phone book.”

Over the next few years, I watched this scene play out dozens of times.

The truly hilarious part was that Max kept a complete phone book in his office for customers he actually liked. If someone was pleasant but genuinely wanted to check options, he’d bend over backwards to help them.

But for the difficult ones?

That mysteriously incomplete phone book became our inside joke.

Max passed away a few years back, but his store is still there, now run by his son Oliver. Last time I visited, I noticed they still keep a phone book at the counter – now completely outdated and useless in the age of Google – but it’s missing exactly the same pages.

Some traditions are worth keeping alive, especially the petty ones that put arrogant people in their place.

Max taught me that sometimes the best customer service means knowing exactly which customers don’t deserve your service at all.

And for what it’s worth, despite his selective page-removing habits, Max’s store outlasted almost all the competitors who would have been listed on those missing pages anyway.

So this happened a few years back when our company was moving offices. We’d been in this high-rise building in the city for about three years, taking up half of the 18th floor with a decent view of the skyline.

When we first moved in, the previous tenant had left behind all their networking infrastructure – a full rack of equipment and blue ethernet cables running throughout the ceiling.

Our IT guy Rafael told us it was actually pretty decent stuff, so we just built on top of their network rather than tearing it out. Smart decision at the time.

The biggest improvement we made was installing a dedicated fiber line from the basement all the way up to our floor.

This wasn’t easy or cheap. We had to coordinate with building management, get special permission to run cable through the secure areas by the bank on the ground floor, and pay a pretty penny to have professionals install it.

Rafael said it was worth it though – way faster internet and no sharing bandwidth with other companies in the building.

Fast forward to when our lease was ending. Our company was expanding, so we’d found a bigger space across town.

The property manager, Elliot, emails me this massive checklist of things we needed to do before moving out. Standard stuff mostly – clean carpets, remove personal items, patch holes in walls.

But then there’s this line about “removing all tenant improvements and returning the space to original condition.” I ask Elliot what exactly that means, and he says we need to take out ALL the networking equipment and cabling we installed.

I explain that most of the blue ethernet cables were already there when we moved in.

Elliot doesn’t believe me. Says his records show we installed everything. I try to argue, but this guy is absolutely convinced we’re trying to pull a fast one. He threatens to withhold our security deposit – which was substantial.

So I spend an entire day tracking down the previous tenant’s IT contact.

Finally get hold of Jack, who thankfully remembers the setup and confirms in writing that yes, all those blue cables and the rack were theirs. I forward this to Elliot, who reluctantly backs down about the ethernet cables.

But then he zeroes in on the fiber line.

“That definitely wasn’t here before. That needs to be removed completely,” he insists.

Now here’s the thing about fiber – it’s valuable. Like really valuable. Especially in our city where getting new lines installed is a nightmare of permits and waiting periods.

Any new tenant would be thrilled to have a ready-to-use fiber connection. I tried explaining this to Elliot, suggesting we could transfer ownership or even sell it to the next tenant at a discount.

His response? “Not my problem.

Remove it completely or we’ll charge you for removal plus extra fees.”

At this point, I’m fuming but decide to comply… exactly as requested. I call Rafael and tell him about the situation. He laughs and says, “Well, if they want it removed…”

The next day, Rafael goes in with a couple of guys from our team.

Instead of carefully disconnecting the fiber and leaving it intact for potential reuse, they simply cut it in several places where it runs inside the walls. Not completely removed as technically demanded, but completely unusable to anyone.

Inspection day comes around, and Elliot brings in some technical guy to check.

Technical guy confirms the fiber line has been “addressed” and can’t be used. Elliot seems satisfied and we get our deposit back.

A month later, I run into Sofia from a company that was looking at leasing our old space.

She mentions they decided against it because getting new fiber installed would take 3-4 months and cost thousands. Apparently, the building owner was furious when he found out what happened to the perfectly good fiber line that now had to be completely replaced.

When Sofia asked who would do something so ridiculous, I just shrugged and said sometimes people get exactly what they ask for – even when it’s against their own interests.

I later heard through the grapevine that the space stayed vacant for nearly six months because modern businesses won’t lease office space without proper internet connectivity.

All because Elliot couldn’t understand the difference between an improvement and an asset.

The nonsense some property managers pull amazes me. I wonder if Elliot ever realized that his insistence on following the rules to the letter probably cost his company way more in lost rent than the value of that fiber line.

Working in manufacturing can be mind-numbingly repetitive, especially if you’re stuck doing the same task day after day. Back in the 90s, I worked at this medium-sized manufacturing plant with about 200 employees, and that’s where I met George, our receiving clerk.

George was a good guy – always joking around, bringing donuts on Fridays, and just generally making the workplace more bearable.

His job was to manually log every single item that came into our factory. We’re talking 100-200 different parts EVERY DAY. This was before computers were really a thing in our industry, so he had to write everything down by hand on these long inventory forms.

Initially, George had an assistant named Nolan who helped him process all the incoming parts.

One would check the shipments while the other would log everything. They had a system going, and George also handled some quality control work which he seemed to really enjoy. But then Nolan quit, and management decided not to replace him.

That’s when things started to change.

George’s workload didn’t decrease – he still had to process all those parts – but now he was doing it alone. His additional responsibilities got reassigned, and he became “just the receiving guy.” I could tell it really got to him.

At first, George would complain to anyone who would listen.

“Can you believe they expect me to do this all by myself? It’s literally impossible to finish this and do it right!” he’d say while gesturing at stacks of inventory forms. “I used to do quality control, you know.

I’m qualified for so much more than this.”

After a while, people started avoiding him. Nobody wanted to hear the same complaints over and over. George used to be part of our lunch crew – we’d all sit together in the break room, trading stories and laughing.

Then he started eating alone in his car. It was sad to watch, honestly.

This went on for months until suddenly, George seemed to snap out of it. He stopped complaining and started acting more like his old self. We were all relieved, thinking he’d finally made peace with his situation.

He wasn’t quite as cheerful as before, but at least he wasn’t constantly griping about his job.

Then one day, about eight months later, security escorted George out of the building. He was fired on the spot.

We were all shocked – what could George possibly have done?

The story came out piece by piece over the next few days. Apparently, George had been hiding messages in the inventory logs for almost a year. He was using the first letter of each item to spell out messages when you read down the page.

The messages weren’t immediately obvious because he staggered them, placing them so they weren’t lined up perfectly.

From what I heard from Samuel in accounting (who saw the evidence), George would even hold back certain shipments just so he could use specific first letters to complete his messages.

He’d plan out what he wanted to say each week and then arrange the inventory logs to spell it out.

Most of his hidden messages were directed at three specific managers: Naomi from HR, Julia from operations, and Riley, our department head.

These weren’t just complaints – they were personal attacks. The one that finally got him caught was something about Naomi having a “nasty mouth.” Not exactly professional.

The crazy part is that nobody would have ever noticed if not for pure chance.

Vanessa from accounting was reviewing some paperwork and happened to notice a pattern in the first letters. Once she spotted one message, she started looking for others and found dozens scattered throughout months of inventory logs.

I ran into George about a year later at a local diner.

He seemed embarrassed but also kind of proud of his little rebellion. “They turned me into a robot, man,” he told me. “I needed to feel human somehow, like I still had some control. I knew I’d get caught eventually, but by then I’d already gone too far to stop.”

“Didn’t you worry about getting fired?” I asked him.

“Sure, but I was already looking for another job,” he said.

“The day they decided I wasn’t worth replacing Nolan was the day I decided they weren’t worth my loyalty.”

George now works as a logistics coordinator at a smaller company. He told me they actually value his experience and have him handling multiple responsibilities.

He seems happier.

Looking back, I can see how the whole situation could have been avoided. If management had just listened to George’s legitimate complaints about his workload or found a way to make him feel valued despite the changes to his role, maybe he wouldn’t have resorted to his secret code messages.

Sometimes I wonder if any of those managers ever reflected on their role in the situation.

Did they ever consider that maybe they pushed a good employee to the breaking point? I doubt it. In my experience, people who rise to management rarely take responsibility when things go wrong.

As for me, I learned an important lesson: pay attention to how people change under pressure.

When someone goes from constantly complaining to suddenly quiet, they haven’t necessarily accepted their situation – they might just be plotting their revenge in ways you’d never expect.

Oh, and I check the first letters of any documents that cross my desk now and then, just in case someone else got inspired by George’s creative form of rebellion.

Looking back, I should’ve just gone home when my shift was supposed to end.

I was working at this grocery store while going to school part-time.

It’s been about four years since I left the military, and I mainly handled stock – organizing deliveries so the shelf stockers could find things easier. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid some bills while I finished my degree.

This particular Tuesday, we had a light delivery schedule, so I finished my usual tasks about two hours early.

Being the genius I am, instead of clocking out and enjoying some free time, I asked my assistant manager Robert if there was anything else I could do. I couldn’t afford to lose those hours from my paycheck.

Robert’s eyes lit up like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“Actually, Jordan, I’ve been meaning to clean out that old storage closet upstairs. We could turn it into another break room.”

I didn’t understand why we needed another break room when the one we had was perfectly fine, but whatever, I needed the hours.

The closet was packed with boxes of unused price tags that had accumulated over years.

Each box weighed between 70-90 pounds, and Robert wanted them all brought down two flights of stairs – about 20 steps total.

Now, I should mention that my time in the military left me with some souvenirs – specifically, messed up knees and a back that likes to remind me I’m not 18 anymore.

Our company actually has a two-person lift policy for anything over 50 pounds, which I tried pointing out to Robert.

“You’re young, you got this!” he said with a dismissive wave. “I’ve got paperwork to catch up on.”

I tried again to explain that it wasn’t about being young – it was about following safety protocols.

But Robert just walked away, leaving me with a closet full of heavy boxes and my better judgment screaming at me to refuse.

But I didn’t refuse. I needed the job and the hours.

I managed to get the first box down without incident.

On the second box, halfway down the stairs, I felt something shift in my knee. I tried to regain my balance, but my knee completely gave out. I dropped the box (thankfully not on myself) and collapsed.

The pain was immediate and intense.

Within five minutes, my knee had swollen to twice its normal size. I couldn’t put any weight on it.

When Robert finally came to see what all the commotion was about, his first reaction wasn’t concern – it was annoyance.

“Come on, Jordan, it can’t be that bad.

We need to get those boxes moved today.”

I just stared at him, dumbfounded. “I can’t walk, Robert.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Go home and walk it off. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”

No incident report.

No offer to help me to my car. Nothing.

I called my buddy Isaac who helped me get to urgent care, where they confirmed I had severely sprained my knee. The doctor gave me a brace and crutches and told me to stay off it for at least two weeks.

The next morning, I got a call from our store manager, Landon.

According to him, Robert had reported that I was being lazy and had faked an injury to get out of work. Landon wanted me to come in “to discuss the situation.”

So I did. I hobbled in on my crutches, my knee still swollen like a grapefruit, and met Landon in his office.

Whitney from HR was there too, looking concerned.

“Jordan, what happened yesterday?” Landon asked.

I told them exactly what happened – the heavy boxes, Robert dismissing the two-person lift policy, my injury. Whitney took photos of my knee and had me fill out an incident report – something that should have been done immediately after the injury.

As I was leaving, I could hear Landon’s voice echo through the store as he tore into Robert.

Apparently, the security cameras in the stairwell had captured the whole thing.

I ended up on worker’s comp for eight weeks. Physical therapy three times a week to get my knee functioning properly again. When I finally returned to work, Robert was gone – transferred to another store across town.

According to the rumor mill, he nearly got fired for the safety violation and then trying to cover it up.

I still work there part-time, but now I’m much more vocal about safety protocols. And when my shift is supposed to end?

I clock out and go home. No more “extra hours” for me.

The funny thing is, they never did turn that closet into a second break room. All those boxes are still sitting there, waiting for someone else who’s “young enough to handle it.” Except now there’s a big sign on the door that reads “TWO PERSON LIFT REQUIRED FOR ALL BOXES.”

Sometimes the best lessons are the ones that leave a scar – or in my case, a knee that can predict the weather with surprising accuracy.

So my tech department has been using these ancient Windows machines for years. Up until recently, we were stuck with Windows XP – you know, that operating system that barely knows what to do with different file types.

It’s 2024, and we’re finally upgrading, but this story is from our dark XP days.

We’re an engineering team that uses all these project management tools like Jira to track our work. The whole point of these systems is so managers can see exactly what everyone’s doing without having to bug us constantly.

It’s all there – tasks, progress, comments, everything.

Anyway, about a year ago, Diana, our department manager, decided that we all needed to submit weekly reports directly to her. When I pointed out that we were already spending hours updating Jira with all our progress (which was literally her job to review), she just shrugged and said, “Looking at Jira seems hard.

Just send me weekly reports instead.”

I tried explaining that this was literally doubling our work, but she wouldn’t budge. Fine. You want reports? I’ll give you reports.

Instead of using Word like everyone else, I decided to submit my weekly reports as plain text files created with Linux tools.

But here’s where I got creative – I named each file “christian-weekly.” followed by the date in a format like “20230425”.

If you know anything about Windows XP, you know it has a fit when it encounters files without proper extensions.

So when Diana would try to open these files from her email, Windows would throw up this annoying dialogue box asking what program she wanted to use to open a “20230425” file. And even if she picked Notepad, the Linux line endings would make the whole thing appear as one giant paragraph.

The best part?

Since the extension changed every week (because of the different dates), she’d have to go through this whole process EVERY SINGLE TIME she wanted to read one of my reports.

Fast forward six months, and I was chatting with Diana about a project issue.

I mentioned that I’d detailed some solutions in my weekly report from three weeks ago. She got this awkward look on her face and finally admitted, “To be honest, Christian, I haven’t been reading your reports.

They’re just too difficult to open.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Here I was, spending extra time writing these reports that she insisted were absolutely necessary, and she hadn’t read a single one because they were “too hard to open.”

Eventually Diana moved on to another department, and the whole weekly report requirement disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

The new manager, Andrew, actually uses Jira like he’s supposed to.

The ironic thing is, Diana was kind of right about one thing – the Jira reports ARE confusing and poorly designed. That was partly my point all along!

Either we need to put in the work to make Jira useful and consistent (which takes time), or we’re just wasting hours entering data that nobody will ever look at or understand.

The whole experience taught me that sometimes managers create extra work not because they need the information, but because they want to feel like they’re managing something.

They’d rather have reports they never read than learn a new system that actually shows them what’s happening.

My coworker Samuel thought my file naming scheme was hilarious when I told him, but Anita from the front-end team said I was being petty.

Maybe I was, but sometimes you have to find small victories when fighting against nonsense corporate policies.

Now when new hires complain about having to use Jira, I tell them this story as a warning about what happens when managers try to create their own reporting systems.

At least our current boss actually reads what we send him – even if half the time he responds with “looks good” and nothing else.

The moral of the story? If you’re going to make people do extra work, at least have the decency to look at what they produce.

Otherwise, don’t be surprised if they find creative ways to show you how pointless that work really is.

I was the kid who made teachers sigh when they saw my name on their roster. Not because I was disruptive or rude – I just wasn’t there half the time.

And when I was physically present, my mind was somewhere else. The empty notebook on my desk told the whole story.

My science teacher, Ms. Harper, probably dreaded seeing me slouch into her classroom on those rare days I decided to grace everyone with my presence.

I was failing her class spectacularly, but it wasn’t because I couldn’t understand the material. That was the frustrating part – I actually loved science. Always had. I’d been reading advanced textbooks since elementary school, teaching myself everything from quantum physics to organic chemistry while my classmates were still figuring out the periodic table.

School felt pointless.

I was stuck in this system where I had to pretend not to know things just to fit in. So instead, I stopped showing up. I figured if I already knew the material, why waste my time?

I hadn’t been to Ms.

Harper’s class in over a month when I found myself in the counselor’s waiting area one Tuesday morning. I was supposed to meet with Mr. Carter about my attendance – again. While waiting, I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation through the open door of the conference room next door.

“I need Alex removed from my class,” I heard Ms.

Harper saying to Principal Isaac. “He is incapable of learning the material.”

Incapable? INCAPABLE? I felt my face flush with anger. She hadn’t seen me in weeks – what did she know about my capabilities?

Principal Isaac mumbled something in response that I couldn’t quite catch, but it didn’t matter.

A plan was already forming in my mind. If Ms. Harper thought I was incapable, I’d show her just how wrong she was.

The next day, for the first time in forever, I arrived early to science class.

I picked a seat right in the front row, directly in Ms. Harper’s line of sight. When she walked in and saw me, she actually did a double-take. I smiled politely.

She recovered quickly and started her lesson on cellular respiration.

When she asked a question about the Krebs cycle, my hand shot up before anyone else’s. The surprise on her face was worth every second.

“Alex?”

“The Krebs cycle, also known as the citric acid cycle, produces two molecules of ATP, six NADH, and two FADH2 per glucose molecule,” I answered.

“It’s the second stage of cellular respiration after glycolysis.”

Ms. Harper blinked a few times. “That’s… correct.”

I answered every single question she asked that day. I completed the lab assignment in half the time it took everyone else.

While my classmates were still setting up their microscopes, I was already sketching detailed diagrams of what I’d observed.

By the end of the class, I’d finished not only that day’s homework but also the assignments for the rest of the week.

I handed everything to Ms. Harper as the bell rang.

“Here you go,” I said. “I think you’ll find everything’s correct.”

The look on her face was priceless – confusion mixed with something else.

Maybe respect? I didn’t stick around to find out. I walked out of that classroom with my head held high, knowing I’d made my point.

And I never went back.

For the rest of the semester, I skipped Ms.

Harper’s class just like before. I aced the final exam without attending a single additional session. My revenge was complete – I’d proven that I wasn’t incapable; I just didn’t care.

At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

Looking back now, I realize how shortsighted I was being.

A few years later, I dropped out after 10th grade. I was too smart for school – or so I told myself. Reality hit hard when I started applying for jobs and had to check the box that showed 10th grade as my highest level of education.

Even worse was watching my former classmates post about their college acceptances while I was still trying to figure out what to do with my life.

I eventually enrolled in community college, but it wasn’t the prestigious university I could have attended if I’d just done the work in high school.

My intelligence wasn’t enough without the credentials to back it up.

I ran into Ms. Harper at a grocery store last year. I almost ducked behind a display of cereal boxes to avoid her, but she spotted me first.

“Alex,” she said, smiling.

“How have you been?”

We caught up awkwardly between the produce section and dairy aisle. I told her about the technical certification I was working toward, trying to make it sound more impressive than it was.

“You know,” she said as we were about to part ways, “that day you showed up to class – I was so impressed.

I kept hoping you’d come back.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised. “I thought you wanted me gone. I overheard you telling Principal Isaac I was incapable of learning.”

She frowned. “That’s not what I said.

I said you were capable of so much more than what you were showing. I wanted to move you to the advanced placement class, but they wouldn’t let me without consistent attendance records.”

I stood there, frozen between the milk and yogurt.

All this time, I’d misheard her. My grand gesture of revenge had been based on a complete misunderstanding.

“I always knew you were brilliant, Alex,” she continued. “That’s why it frustrated me so much to see you waste your potential.”

On my drive home, her words kept repeating in my head.

All those years I’d been so sure I was outsmarting everyone, when really, I’d only been hurting myself.

I’m 25 now, finally finishing a degree that I should have completed years ago. If I could tell my younger self anything, it would be this: Being smart isn’t enough.

Showing up matters. Doing the work matters.

Don’t be like me – don’t waste years proving a point that no one but you cares about. The person you’re really competing with is yourself, and trust me, future you will thank you for putting in the effort now.

So I gotta tell you all about the absolute cluster that happened at work this week, and I’m still kinda laughing about it while also wanting to bang my head against a wall.

I work in a military unit with heavy vehicles.

We’re talking massive tracked vehicles, giant artillery pieces, the works. These beasts require constant maintenance, and we have this thing called Preventative Maintenance Checks and Services (PMCS) that we do regularly. Basically, we check our vehicles to find and fix issues before they become serious problems.

Normally, we focus on the big stuff – making sure fluids are good, lights work, no major leaks, engine runs properly – the critical things that could actually cause problems if we tried to operate the vehicle.

The full maintenance manual for each vehicle is literally a thousand pages long, with hundreds of possible check points. Nobody has time for that nonsense every single day.

So we have this system where we track two types of issues: Faults (minor stuff that doesn’t affect operation but should eventually get fixed) and Deadlines (major issues that should prevent the vehicle from being used until fixed).

In reality, we typically only log the big stuff because our mechanics are swamped and won’t bother fixing the tiny things anyway.

For example, my vehicle has a cracked headlight cover, but the light works perfectly fine. It’s been that way for ages.

Why write it down when nobody’s gonna fix it and it doesn’t affect our ability to do our job?

Well, yesterday Malcolm (our senior maintenance officer who everyone calls “Chief”) decided to do a surprise inspection.

He and some other higher-ups walked through, checked our vehicles and our maintenance logs. They completely lost it when they saw we weren’t writing down every little thing.

“This is unacceptable!” Malcolm shouted, his face getting red.

“You’re not doing your jobs properly! These vehicles aren’t being properly maintained!”

Then he pointed at me and Felix, who I ride with. “You two! Your vehicle alone probably has fifty issues you haven’t documented!”

The whole time he’s ranting, Felix and I are just standing there like ‘seriously dude?’ because we all know how this works.

But no, they insisted we do a complete, by-the-book PMCS and log EVERY SINGLE deficiency we found.

“Yes, sir,” we all said.

So today, that’s exactly what we did. Every nut, bolt, scratch, dent, worn tread, slightly loose panel – everything got checked and logged.

For context, these vehicles are absolute monsters. My ride is a tracked vehicle that weighs more than most people’s houses. The maintenance manual is thicker than a phone book.

By lunchtime, my log sheet was already a page and a half long.

Felix was taking sadistic pleasure in documenting every microscopic flaw. “Look at this, Andrew! This gauge needle is slightly bent. Better write it up!” The two of us were practically giggling as the list grew.

And here’s where it gets good – the engine bay fire sensor in our vehicle has been faulty for over a year.

Everyone knows about it, including Malcolm, and they’ve been letting us operate anyway. But since he said to log EVERYTHING…

“Fire detection system fails operational test. Vehicle deadline condition.” Felix wrote it in big letters at the top of the form.

By the end of the day, every single vehicle in our unit had at least one deadline condition, meaning technically NONE of them should be operated until fixed.

Our entire battalion is effectively grounded right now.

The best part? We’re supposed to go to the field for a major training exercise in three days. There’s absolutely no way the mechanics can fix all these issues by then.

Not even close.

Samuel, one of our mechanics, came by as we were finishing up. He looked at our log sheets and just shook his head. “You know they’re gonna lose their minds when they see this, right?”

“Just following orders,” I said with a shrug.

“Malcolm specifically told us to document everything,” Felix added with the straightest face he could manage.

Samuel laughed.

“Well, I hope you guys like sitting around doing nothing, because none of these vehicles are going anywhere anytime soon.”

This morning, our platoon leader Vanessa came in looking stressed. “What happened with the maintenance logs? I’m hearing our entire fleet is deadlined?”

I explained how Malcolm had instructed us to log everything, and we were just following his direct orders.

Vanessa sighed deeply.

“The battalion commander is going ballistic. We’re supposed to be combat-ready for this field exercise, and now we’re reporting zero operational vehicles.”

“Just doing what Chief told us to do, ma’am,” Felix said innocently.

Now everyone’s scrambling.

They’re trying to figure out how to un-deadline vehicles without actually fixing the problems, which is completely against regulations. The same regulations they were screaming at us about yesterday.

I overheard Malcolm on the phone earlier, trying to explain to someone higher up why suddenly our entire unit is combat ineffective.

The best part was watching him try to explain why we shouldn’t have followed his own instructions.

“No, sir, I didn’t mean for them to log EVERY issue… just the important ones…”

Turns out when you actually follow the rules to the letter, the whole system falls apart.

Who would’ve thought?

The field exercise starts in two days now, and I’m just sitting here watching the chaos unfold. Will they make us go out with deadlined vehicles? Will they cancel the exercise? Will Malcolm finally admit the system is broken?

No idea, but I’ve got my popcorn ready.

Sometimes malicious compliance is the only way to get a point across in this place.

I work at an immigration consulting firm, and let me tell you – patience isn’t just a virtue in this job, it’s practically a requirement.

For those who’ve never dealt with the immigration system, let me break it down: these cases don’t just take days or weeks.

We’re talking months. Sometimes years. It’s like watching paint dry, except the paint keeps changing colors and occasionally disappears completely.

We explain the timeline to every single client. Our spiel goes something like: “We handle our part – filling out forms, gathering documents, assembling everything, and submitting it to the proper authorities.

Then we wait. Based on current processing times for your type of case, expect to wait X months.”

To be fair, about 90% of clients get it. They understand we don’t personally stamp the approvals or hand-deliver visas.

But there’s always that handful who call weekly asking for “updates” when there’s literally nothing new to report. And then there’s people like Charlotte.

Charlotte is desperately trying to bring her Brazilian model husband, Nicholas, to join her in Texas.

And when I say desperate, I mean DESPERATE. This woman calls and emails me EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. I’ve explained countless times that I have absolutely zero influence over how quickly immigration processes applications. It doesn’t matter.

The calls and emails keep coming.

Yesterday, I finally (very politely) told her that she needed to stop calling me daily, and I promised I would contact her IMMEDIATELY when I had any news about Nicholas’s case. Her response?

She complained about me to my manager.

Luckily, my manager Quinn is incredible. She knows I’m dedicated and that I never neglect client cases. Instead of reprimanding me, she got this mischievous look on her face and said, “Maybe we can find a way to give Charlotte those daily updates she’s so eager for…”

So before leaving the office yesterday, I set up an automated email to Charlotte.

Starting today and continuing until we actually hear back from immigration (which will probably be around October), she’ll receive this message every day at 3:15 PM:

“Dear Charlotte,

We did not receive any news regarding your husband Nicholas’s case today.

Talk to you tomorrow!

Regards,
Alex”

The first one went out today, and within minutes, my phone rang.

It was Charlotte, of course.

“Alex, I got your email. So there’s no update today?”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. “That’s correct, Charlotte. As the email states, there is no update today.”

“But you’ll let me know if you hear anything tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” I replied.

“You’ll definitely be hearing from me tomorrow.”

She seemed satisfied with that. Little does she know she’ll be getting the exact same message tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.

Quinn stopped by my desk later and asked how Charlotte had responded to the first automated email.

“She called to confirm there was no update,” I said.

Quinn burst out laughing.

“Perfect. She wanted daily updates, and now she’s getting them.”

The funny thing is, I’m actually providing better service now. Charlotte wanted daily communication, and that’s exactly what she’s getting – accurate, timely updates that confirm there is, in fact, nothing to report.

I’m curious how long it’ll take before she realizes these emails are automated.

My bet is on two weeks before she catches on, but Henry from the accounting department thinks she’ll figure it out by next Tuesday. We’ve actually got a small office pool going now.

Meanwhile, Abigail from the front desk suggested I slightly alter the wording each day to make it less obvious, but I think that defeats the purpose.

The beautiful monotony of receiving the exact same message day after day perfectly mirrors the monotony of waiting for immigration to process paperwork.

The best part? Once we do hear from immigration, I plan to alter the email just slightly:

“Dear Charlotte,

We DID receive news regarding your husband Nicholas’s case today.

I’ll call you in five minutes!

Regards,
Alex”

I’m actually looking forward to making that call, whenever it happens.

But until then, Charlotte will get exactly what she asked for – daily updates, even when there’s nothing to update.

Maybe I’m being petty, but after weeks of explaining how the process works only to be met with more demands and complaints, this feels like sweet justice.

And honestly, it’s the most efficient solution for everyone involved. Charlotte gets her daily contact, and I don’t have to stop what I’m doing ten times a day to tell her there’s no news.

The immigration system might move at a glacial pace, but at least my automated emails are perfectly punctual.

I still remember Ms. Yasmin from fifth grade like it was yesterday, and not in a good way. She was easily the worst teacher I ever had – totally checked out and just going through the motions to collect a paycheck.

Ms.

Yasmin had this knack for creating the most ridiculous classroom rules you’ve ever heard. Like, she’d make Thomas, who had some learning difficulties, stand up and apologize whenever he forgot to raise his hand – even though she knew he struggled with impulse control.

It was painful to watch.

I was always a quick learner, usually finished assignments way ahead of everyone else, and school came pretty naturally to me. But that year? Pure torture. I was so bored I started finding creative ways to follow her rules while driving her absolutely crazy.

Looking back, I realize I was basically waging a one-kid rebellion against educational mediocrity.

Here’s what made that year both awful and kinda hilarious:

Every single morning started with these grammar exercises. Ms. Yasmin would write 3-4 sentences on the board with errors, and we had to correct them in our notebooks.

Fine, whatever. But then she made us rewrite the exact same sentences for homework – even if we got them 100% right the first time! Total waste of time.

So I started just writing each sentence twice right away in class.

When she caught me, she got all huffy and said, “You need to wait until we review the answers before writing them twice.”

I nodded politely, but I really didn’t want to waste my evening on pointless busywork.

Instead, I’d quickly scribble the second set during the chaotic five minutes between grammar and math while everyone else was talking or sharpening pencils. I’d always finish just in time, and the look on her face when she realized what I was doing?

Priceless. She couldn’t actually say anything since I was following her exact instructions.

Her approach to teaching history was even worse. She would literally just read the textbook out loud while making us track each word with our fingers like we were in kindergarten.

If she thought someone wasn’t paying attention, she’d randomly call on them to continue reading.

I found this pace mind-numbingly slow, so I’d read ahead at my own speed. I probably went through that entire history book at least eight times that year.

Whenever she noticed me flipping pages ahead, she’d get this smug look and call on me, thinking she’d caught me off-guard.

Little did she know, I was keeping track of where she was every few minutes.

When she’d call my name with that gotcha tone, I’d flip back to exactly where she stopped, put my finger precisely on the word, and start reading without missing a beat. The disappointed look on her face never got old.

By spring, our relationship had deteriorated into this weird power struggle.

For a poetry assignment, she had us complete this fill-in-the-blank poem template – hardly creative writing. One line read, “If I could change the world, I would get rid of [blank], [blank], and [blank].”

I don’t remember what I put for the first blank, but for the other two, I wrote “recycling programs” (she was obsessively preachy about recycling) and “tenure protection.” Yeah, probably not the smartest move for a fifth-grader, but I was at my breaking point.

What I didn’t realize was that she’d be reviewing these poems with each of us individually.

When my turn came and she read that line, her face went through this incredible transformation – first confusion, then shock, and finally this look of complete defeat. She just stared at me for what felt like forever before saying, “Moving on…”

Word got around to other teachers, who thought it was hilarious.

One teacher, Mr. Samuel, actually high-fived me in the hallway when Ms. Yasmin wasn’t looking.

At the end of the school year, we found out Ms. Yasmin wouldn’t be returning. Rumor had it she decided teaching “wasn’t her calling after all.” I’m not saying I single-handedly drove her out of the profession, but I like to think my dedication to following her rules exactly as stated might have been the final straw.

The next year was so much better.

We got Ms. Elizabeth, who actually challenged us and made learning fun again. She even let me work on advanced projects when I finished early instead of making me sit there pretending to be busy.

Sometimes I wonder if Ms.

Yasmin ever found a job better suited to her particular talents. Wherever she is, I hope she’s not reading textbooks aloud to anyone.

Back in my college days, I took this class on Medieval European History. It wasn’t my major or anything, but I’d always been fascinated by knights and castles since I was a kid.

I’d read tons of books on the subject, so when I saw this class on the schedule, I figured it would be an easy A to balance out some of my harder engineering courses.

The class itself was pretty decent.

Professor Owen was this middle-aged guy with elbow patches on every single jacket he owned. Stereotypical history buff type. The real bonus though? Sofia sat next to me every class. She had these amazing green eyes that lit up whenever she got excited about something.

We’d started chatting before class about the readings, and I was pretty sure she was at least somewhat interested in me.

I wasn’t one of those annoying students who tries to show off, but I did participate a lot.

When you actually know the material, it’s hard not to jump in with comments. Professor Owen and I had this weird dynamic – sometimes he seemed to appreciate having someone engage with the material, other times he looked irritated when I’d point out something he’d glossed over.

Anyway, about three weeks before finals, I was running behind.

My roommate Rafael had borrowed my car the night before and returned it with basically no gas, so I had to stop and fill up. I slid into the classroom with maybe two minutes to spare before lecture.

As I got to my usual spot next to Sofia, I noticed someone had left a newspaper spread out across my part of the table.

No big deal, right? I quickly put my backpack down and started folding up the paper to clear my space.

That’s when Professor Owen walked in. He looked at me, then loudly announced to the entire class, “If you would rather read the newspaper than listen to my lecture, you can just leave.”

I looked up, confused.

“What?”

His face got red. “I said, if whatever’s in that paper is more interesting than medieval history, there’s the door.” He actually pointed to the exit like I was five years old.

The entire room went dead silent. Sofia gave me this wide-eyed “what the heck” look. ... Click here to continue reading