People Strike Back In These Revenge Stories

I can spot talent from a mile away. It’s something I picked up during my years in the military, and it served me well when I transitioned to civilian life at a non-profit.

That’s exactly what happened when I met Matthew.

Day one at my new leadership position, I’m still getting my bearings when Paige, one of my peers on the leadership team, corners me in the break room.

“Just a heads up about Matthew on your team,” she says, lowering her voice.

“He’s a problem. Low effort, needs constant direction, difficult personality. Between us, we’ve been discussing letting him go.”

I thanked her for the warning while mentally preparing for the worst. Great, I thought. I’m walking into a personnel nightmare right off the bat.

But something didn’t add up once I started working with Matthew.

Sure, he was quiet, kept to himself, and wasn’t exactly the life of the office party. But this guy was a logistics wizard. He managed our department’s inventory with surgical precision–we never ran short, but also never wasted resources with excess stock.

In a non-profit where every dollar counts, that’s golden.

Matthew constantly found creative ways to collaborate with our community partners. He launched new initiatives that maximized our existing resources without additional costs. He even impressed donors so much they contributed significant funding to his side projects–and fundraising wasn’t even in his job description!

Yet despite all this, the leadership team seemed to have it out for him.

I couldn’t figure out why until Miles, another team member, clued me in over coffee one afternoon.

“You know what started all this, right?” Miles asked. “About a year ago, Matthew mentioned to Paige that you can hear conversations through the walls because they only go up to the drop ceiling.

He was just annoyed because it made phone calls difficult, but she took it as him admitting to eavesdropping on everyone. She told the rest of leadership, and they’ve had it in for him ever since.”

That’s it?

A misinterpreted comment about the office layout? I decided to talk to Matthew directly.

“Yeah, that’s what happened,” he confirmed when I brought it up. “I was just complaining about how hard it is to concentrate with everyone’s conversations bleeding through.

If I wanted to snoop, why would I point out the problem?”

He had a point. Instead of asking Matthew to clarify, they’d assumed the worst and run with it. By the time I arrived, the damage was done.

Over the next few months, I discovered something even more disturbing.

Matthew had tried to advance his career within the organization, applying for positions at nearby branches, but leadership actively sabotaged him. I learned about three specific instances where they contacted other locations to torpedo his chances before he even got an interview.

Matthew realized he had no future there.

He started looking elsewhere, keeping it quiet from everyone except me. After months of working together, he knew I was in his corner. He eventually found an opportunity at another branch in a different state. He applied, got an interview, and waited while they evaluated candidates.

Around that time, Paige approached me with what she thought was a compliment.

“I’m amazed by the changes in Matthew since you came on board,” she said.

“You’ve really transformed him into a productive team member!”

I couldn’t let that slide. “Actually, I haven’t changed Matthew at all. He was always this good. What I’ve been working on is changing your perception of him.

Every time he accomplishes something, I make sure everyone knows about it. The work wasn’t on him–it was on you and the rest of leadership.”

She just stared at me, speechless.

When Matthew asked if I’d be a reference for his new position, I immediately called the manager at the other location.

“I don’t want to lose Matthew,” I told her honestly, “but all the reasons I want him to stay are exactly why you should hire him.

If he stays here, the organization will eventually lose him completely because they won’t let him advance. I’d rather see him succeed elsewhere in the organization than lose his talents entirely.”

She hired him, of course.

My recommendation just confirmed what his skills, experience, and interview had already shown her–Matthew was exceptional.

The sweet revenge came when our leadership team had to publicly congratulate him on his move. The same people who had actively blocked his advancement now had to put on smiles and wish him well.

Some of their congratulations were painfully forced, especially Paige’s.

The best part? Matthew’s new position was half a step above all of ours in the hierarchy. He hadn’t just moved on–he’d moved up and outranked every single person who had stood in his way.

I’ll never forget the look on Paige’s face when she realized Matthew would now be attending regional leadership meetings as her superior.

Sometimes the best revenge isn’t making a scene or burning bridges–it’s simply succeeding despite every obstacle they put in your path.

As for me, I couldn’t have been prouder. Matthew didn’t need my mentoring; he needed someone to recognize his value and get out of his way.

In the end, I was just lucky enough to be along for the ride.

Working at UpLift Foundation was both the best and worst job experience of my life. The local branch where I worked was run by Hannah, possibly the most toxic manager in the nonprofit sector.

Picture this: a woman who thought public humiliation was an acceptable management technique. She’d call people out for the smallest mistakes in front of the entire office. Once, I watched her throw a stapler across the room because someone formatted a spreadsheet wrong.

Another time, she made Whitney cry because she used the wrong font in a donor letter. Not the wrong font size – the wrong font.

The only saving grace was my awesome team. Emily, Kayla, and Aisha were my lifelines in that hellhole.

We’d meet up at this little bar called Marty’s after particularly rough days, order some booze (though Aisha usually stuck to club soda), and vent about Hannah’s latest power trip. Those sessions kept me sane.

“Did you see her face when the board member questioned the budget?” Emily would say, mimicking Hannah’s forced smile perfectly.

Kayla would chime in: “I thought her eye was gonna twitch right off her face!”

Our office was tiny, taking up just half of the 12th floor in a downtown high-rise.

The bathrooms weren’t even exclusively ours – we shared them with the accounting firm across the hall. The building management kept them locked, so each office had their own set of bathroom keys. It was annoying, but whatever.

Last winter, we had this massive snowstorm hit the city.

My usual 25-minute commute turned into a two-hour nightmare. Roads were barely plowed, traffic was crawling, and to make matters worse, my stomach was in absolute rebellion. I’d grabbed breakfast at this sketchy food truck the night before (bad life choice), and now I was paying for it.

By the time I finally reached the office, I was in serious trouble.

Cold sweat, cramping, the works. I burst through the door, barely said hello to Aisha at reception, and made a beeline for the keys hanging by the door. I grabbed them and practically ran to the bathroom.

What happened in that bathroom… well, let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t messy, thank goodness, but the smell – oh man. Think of the worst thing you’ve ever smelled, then multiply it by ten. I was in there dying of embarrassment, praying nobody would come in after me.

I searched desperately for air freshener, but the usual can was empty. Perfect timing.

I finished up, washed my hands thoroughly, and headed back to the office, keys in hand. I was planning to make some kind of announcement, a warning to give the bathroom a few minutes to, uh, air out.

But just as I walked through our office door, Hannah came charging in from the elevator, looking frazzled and irritated.

“The bathroom keys.

Now!” she demanded, not even saying good morning. “This ridiculous commute took forever, and I should’ve gone before leaving home.”

She held her hand out, impatient and tapping her foot. Her face had that look – the one that said someone was getting yelled at today.

I handed her the keys immediately, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Here you go,” I said, voice steady despite the chaos happening inside my head.

“Finally,” she muttered, snatching them and rushing out.

I walked to my desk, sat down, and waited. Emily glanced over, raising an eyebrow at my barely contained grin.

“What’s up with you?” she whispered.

I just shook my head and mouthed, “Wait for it.”

About three minutes later, Hannah returned.

Her face was a strange mixture of disgust and forced composure. She silently hung the keys back up, walked straight to her office, and closed the door. She didn’t come out for meetings. She ordered lunch in. She barely spoke to anyone all day.

At our desks, the four of us kept exchanging glances and suppressing giggles.

During lunch, I finally confessed what had happened in the break room.

“No way!” Kayla whispered, her eyes wide. “Cosmic justice!”

“Maybe she’ll be nicer now that she’s experienced true trauma,” Emily joked.

She wasn’t nicer, of course.

Hannah was back to her old self the next day. But for that one glorious day, we got to enjoy the sweet silence of a humbled tyrant. And honestly? After months of her nonsense, that small victory felt absolutely magnificent.

We still bring it up sometimes at our Marty’s meetups, even though most of us have moved on to different jobs.

“Remember the bathroom incident?” someone will say, and we’ll all dissolve into laughter. Some workplace memories fade, but that one? That one’s immortal.

You know what’s the worst? Working with someone who thinks they’re God’s gift to the workplace but has the brain capacity of a goldfish.

That was my situation with Owen at the community pool where I worked as a lifeguard.

I’d been with the same aquatic center company for about four years, recently transferring to a different location closer to my apartment.

Everything was going fine until I met Owen, the assistant manager who treated the place like his personal kingdom.

This guy would strut around the pool deck, clipboard in hand, pointing out every minor issue while completely missing actual safety concerns.

He’d correct my whistle technique in front of guests but couldn’t remember the proper chemical balance for the pool. Classic Owen.

“Diana, your scanning pattern is inefficient,” he’d say, while literally standing in my zone blocking my view of three kids roughhousing in the deep end.

Owen’s favorite pastime was micromanaging the staff schedule.

He’d change my hours without notice, then act shocked when I complained. “We need team players here,” he’d say with that condescending smile. Meanwhile, he’d take two-hour lunch breaks and disappear whenever there was actual work to be done.

The breaking point came during a particularly busy Saturday.

We were short-staffed, the pool was packed, and I’d already worked a double shift. Owen strolled in around noon, fresh as a daisy, and immediately started criticizing how I’d arranged the rescue tubes.

“This is all wrong,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Did they teach you nothing at your last center? This is why I need to supervise everything.”

I bit my tongue so hard I nearly drew blood. After my shift, I sat in the staff room, fuming, when I noticed Owen’s locker was hanging open as usual.

That’s when inspiration struck.

Owen was weirdly vain about his hair. Every morning, he’d spend at least 20 minutes in the locker room bathroom styling it with this fancy blue-packaged hair gel he wouldn’t shut up about.

“Imported from Italy,” he’d tell anyone who’d listen.

The next day, I came in early with a small tube of muscle cream from my gym bag. The kind that starts cool but heats up intensely after a few minutes.

I waited until the locker room was empty, then carefully opened his precious hair product, mixed in a generous amount of the muscle cream, and stirred it so it wasn’t visible.

Then I waited.

Owen arrived at his usual time, did his bathroom routine, and headed out to start his shift.

I was already on the pool deck when he came out, his hair perfectly styled.

About fifteen minutes into the morning, I noticed Owen starting to fidget. He kept touching his scalp, looking increasingly uncomfortable. His face was getting redder by the minute.

Then it hit him full force.

He let out this weird yelp and started frantically rubbing his head. “It’s burning! My head is on fire!” he shouted, drawing attention from everyone in the pool area.

He ran to the shower rooms so fast he nearly slipped on the wet floor.

I tried not to laugh, but failed miserably. The other lifeguards were looking confused, but a couple of them who’d been on the receiving end of Owen’s nonsense were hiding smiles.

Owen emerged twenty minutes later, his perfectly styled hair now a wet, disheveled mess.

His scalp was still bright red. If looks could kill, I would’ve drowned on the spot when he glared at me.

Somehow, Victoria from the front desk figured it out and told Owen it was me. I got called into the manager’s office that afternoon.

Santiago, the head manager who I’d known since I was a kid taking swimming lessons at another center, tried to look serious but I could tell he was struggling not to laugh.

“Diana, we can’t have staff pranking each other,” Santiago said, his voice wobbling with suppressed laughter.

“It’s unprofessional and potentially dangerous.” Then he lowered his voice. “Though between us, that jerk had it coming. Just don’t do it again, okay?”

I got assigned to extra cleaning duty for a week as a token punishment.

Worth it.

The best part? Owen became significantly less obnoxious after that. He still acted like he knew everything, but he stopped the public criticism and actually started doing his share of the work. Sometimes he’d touch his head absently, as if remembering the burning sensation.

I’m not saying you should prank your annoying coworkers.

But I’m not not saying it either. Sometimes people need a little reminder that they’re not untouchable.

Funny thing is, Owen and I eventually developed a weird kind of respect for each other. He even admitted once, during a slow afternoon shift, that he “might have been a bit much” when I first transferred.

Coming from Owen, that was practically a tearful apology.

I’ve since moved on to a better job coaching competitive swimming, but I still drop by the center occasionally. Owen always gives me this cautious nod, keeping a safe distance between us.

And his locker? Always firmly locked now.

I moved into this townhouse about three years ago thinking it was gonna be fine. Just a normal place to live while I saved up for my own home.

Man, was I wrong.

My landlord, Peter, turned out to be the cheapest person I’ve ever met. The place had issues from day one, but getting him to fix anything was like pulling teeth. We had German cockroaches everywhere – I’d wake up and find them crawling across my kitchen counter.

The bathroom floor leaked so badly that water would drip through the ceiling into my kitchen. One time, I was cooking dinner and water started dripping onto my stove! And get this – the air conditioners leaked water directly into power outlets.

Like, actual electrical hazards that could have burned the place down.

Every time something broke, I’d call Peter, and he’d ignore me for days. Then I’d have to threaten to file a formal complaint with the rental board before he’d even consider fixing anything.

It was exhausting.

After about a year of this nonsense, Peter realized all these repairs were costing him money. So what does he do? Decides to sell the place. Fine by me – maybe I’d get a better landlord out of it.

But that’s when the real nightmare began.

He listed the house and scheduled weekly inspections. At first, I was cool with it. The real estate agent, Nadia, would bring people through, and I’d tidy up and make myself scarce.

But weeks turned into months, and these inspections just wouldn’t stop.

What really got me was finding out that Peter had rejected an offer for $750,000 – which was ABOVE market value! He told Nadia he wouldn’t take anything less than $800,000.

Pure greed.

Nadia was almost as bad as Peter. She would call me demanding last-minute inspections, and when I’d say no because I was working from home or had plans, she’d get nasty. Once, she actually called me a bitch in a text message because I wouldn’t allow an inspection with only 30 minutes’ notice.

And she’d walk through the house with her dirty shoes on, tracking mud everywhere that I had to clean up.

After SEVEN MONTHS of these inspections disrupting my life, I was at my breaking point. I called Nadia to ask how much longer this would go on, and she let it slip that Peter regretted not taking the $750k offer and would now accept $700k.

That’s when I had my moment of inspiration.

For the next few inspections, instead of hiding in my room, I decided to be super helpful. I’d greet every potential buyer at the door with a big smile.

“Hi! Welcome to the townhouse! Let me show you around!” And then I’d give them the most honest tour ever.

“See this patch on the ceiling? That’s from when the bathroom flooded. Oh, and check out these cockroach traps – we need them everywhere.

And this air conditioner? It leaked into that power outlet there and almost caused a fire.”

I’d casually mention all the repair issues I’d dealt with and how Peter had cut corners at every opportunity.

Then, right as they were leaving, I’d say, “By the way, I heard the owner would accept $700,000 now, even though he’s listing higher.”

While all this was happening, I made sure to submit maintenance requests for EVERYTHING.

The air conditioners were the biggest ticket items – all three needed replacing. Peter dragged his feet but finally replaced them after another threat to file a complaint.

The day after the new air conditioners were installed, I gave my 21-day notice to vacate.

Peter called me, sounding desperate.

“How am I supposed to pay my mortgage if you leave? Why are you moving out right after I replaced all the air conditioners?”

I felt zero sympathy. “How you pay your mortgage isn’t my problem, Peter.

You own two houses, and I own none. And honestly, of all the places I’ve rented, you’ve been the worst landlord I’ve ever had.”

I found a much nicer place with a landlord who actually responds to maintenance issues.

About a month after I moved out, I ran into Eliza, who lived next door to my old place. She told me Peter had finally sold the townhouse – for exactly $700,000.

I still smile every time I think about it.

Sometimes karma takes a while, but it eventually catches up. Peter held out for an extra $50k and ended up losing $50k instead. And some poor soul bought that townhouse, but at least they got it for a fair price – and with brand new air conditioners.

So there I was at this super old ATM outside the convenience store near my apartment complex. You know the type – screen from 2005, buttons that need serious pressure, and it makes those weird grinding noises like it’s physically counting each dollar.

It was Tuesday evening, I’d just finished my shift, and all I wanted was to deposit my paycheck so I wouldn’t be completely broke until Friday.

I’m standing there, patiently working through the million prompts this ancient machine needs, when I hear tires screeching into the parking lot.

This massive red SUV pulls up behind me, practically breathing down my neck. I’m like halfway through my transaction, literally just pressed the button to deposit, when the honking starts.

Not just a polite “hey, excuse me” kind of honk.

This was aggressive, repeated honking like I’m personally responsible for all the traffic problems in the city.

I turn around and there’s this woman with designer sunglasses (at 7 PM, mind you) gesturing wildly at me through her windshield.

I give her the universal “one minute” finger, trying to be reasonable, and turn back to my transaction.

“SERIOUSLY?” I hear her yell through her barely-cracked window. “Some people have actual places to be!”

I glance back and see her dramatically checking her watch like she’s about to miss a flight or something.

Look, I was having a rough day.

My manager Santiago had been on my case all afternoon about restocking the wrong shelves, my roommate Levi had texted saying he’d forgotten to pay his portion of the electric bill again, and I was hungry and tired.

The last thing I needed was someone treating me like I was intentionally ruining their day by… using an ATM for its intended purpose.

So I made a decision right there.

Instead of finishing up quickly, I pressed “Another Transaction.” The machine gave its usual whirring noise as it thought about this request.

“Oh my GOD,” I heard from behind me.

I checked my savings balance.

Then my checking. Then I transferred $5 between accounts. Then I requested a mini statement. Each option requiring multiple button presses, confirmations, and that delightful 15-second processing time.

The honking resumed, longer this time.

I turned around with my best customer service smile – the one I use when customers tell me the prices are cheaper at the store across town.

“Sorry! This machine is so confusing!” I called out cheerfully.

The woman – I’m going to call her Karen in my head, even though I didn’t get her name – rolled her window down fully now.

“Are you kidding me right now?

I’ve been waiting for five minutes!”

It had been maybe two minutes max, but okay.

“Almost done!” I said, turning back to the ATM where I proceeded to check my rewards points balance, update my contact preferences, and print receipts for every single transaction.

The best part?

This ATM spits out receipts slower than a snail climbing uphill. Each one took about 30 seconds to print, with that satisfying mechanical sound that I normally find annoying but suddenly found deeply satisfying.

I could hear her on the phone now, complaining loudly to someone about “people with no consideration” and “ridiculous wait times” as if she was stuck in line at the DMV instead of waiting maybe 6 minutes at an ATM.

Finally, after exploring literally every menu option available (did you know you can check local ATM locations from most ATMs?

I didn’t until that day), I collected my small stack of receipts, turned around, and gave her my brightest smile.

“All yours!” I said cheerfully, stepping aside with a little flourish.

The look on her face was worth every second.

Pure rage mixed with the inability to actually say anything because what could she say? I had just used the ATM. Completely normally. For an extended period of time.

As I walked to my car, I heard her muttering something about “young people these days” (I’m 29, but whatever).

The best part? As I was pulling out of my parking spot, I glanced over and saw her jabbing at the ATM screen with her finger so hard I thought she might break it.

I rolled down my window. “It works better if you press gently!” I called out helpfully before driving away.

Petty?

Absolutely. Satisfying? You better believe it.

Sometimes when people think their time is more valuable than yours, the best response is to show them just how much of it they can lose by being rude in the first place.

Look, I’m not usually the type to mess with people’s food. That’s crossing a line.

But when my roommate Max decided to be cruel to one of the sweetest people in our apartment building, I had to do something.

This happened back in college when I was sharing this crappy two-bedroom apartment with Max. The guy was a nightmare roommate – never did dishes, left his crap everywhere, and had this mean streak that would show up whenever he’d been drinking.

Which was often.

We lived across the hall from these girls – Olivia, Nora, and Eleanor. They were all really cool, especially Eleanor. She was this genuinely kind person who always remembered everyone’s birthdays and baked cookies for the whole floor during finals week.

She struggled with her weight and was pretty self-conscious about it, but she was honestly one of the nicest people I’d ever met.

So Eleanor’s birthday rolls around, and I see Max wrapping this can of dog food.

Not just any dog food – it was specifically Trim-Life 3 or something, marketed for ‘overweight dogs.’ I asked him what he was doing, and he just laughed and said, ‘It’s for Eleanor, get it? Because she’s fat.’

I was disgusted.

‘Dude, that’s messed up. Don’t do that.’

But of course, he did it anyway. Wrapped it up nice with a bow and everything, then gave it to her at this small gathering Olivia had organized.

When Eleanor opened it, you could see the exact moment her heart broke. She tried to laugh it off, but everyone could tell she was fighting back tears. She quietly thanked him and put it aside. The whole room got awkward, and the party kind of died after that.

The next day, I saw that stupid can sitting on our kitchen counter.

Max had retrieved it after Eleanor had discreetly left it behind. He was laughing about how ‘she couldn’t take a joke.’ That can of dog food just sat there in our pantry for days, like a trophy of his cruelty.

I’m not typically vindictive, but seeing that can every day started to get to me.

Then one night while Max was out getting wasted with his buddies, I got an idea. He had these cans of pasta that he always ate when he came home buzzed. I carefully peeled the label off one of his pasta cans and glued it onto the dog food can.

Then I put it right at the front of the pantry where he’d be sure to grab it when he came home hungry.

Sure enough, around 2 AM, I heard him stumbling in. From my bedroom, I listened as he banged around in the kitchen.

I heard the can opener, then the sound of him dumping the contents into a pot.

There was a pause. ‘Hey,’ he called out, probably realizing I was still awake since my light was on. ‘This doesn’t look right.’

I walked out to the kitchen, trying to keep a straight face.

‘What’s up?’

He was staring down at the pot of chunky brown meat-like substance. ‘This doesn’t look like pasta.’

‘Let me see,’ I said, looking at the pot. ‘Oh, that’s their new recipe.

It’s like, um, a hearty meat sauce version. They’ve been advertising it.’

‘Really?’ He looked skeptical but was too buzzed to think clearly. ‘Smells weird.’

‘Nah man, that’s the new flavoring.

It’s supposed to be like, gourmet or whatever. Some people at the dorm were talking about it.’

He shrugged and started heating it up. The smell that filled our apartment was… unique. Dog food has this distinct, terrible smell when heated.

But Max was determined to eat his late-night snack.

He plopped down on the couch with his bowl and took a big spoonful. I watched as he chewed thoughtfully.

‘Kinda different,’ he mumbled, taking another bite. ‘Not bad though.’

I couldn’t believe he was actually eating it.

I was trying not to laugh as he worked his way through almost half the bowl.

‘Actually,’ I said casually, ‘you know what’s funny? I noticed earlier that can of dog food you got for Eleanor was missing.’

He froze mid-bite.

‘What?’

‘Yeah, that Trim-Life stuff. It’s not in the pantry anymore.’

Max’s eyes widened. He looked down at his bowl, then back at me. I couldn’t hold back my smile any longer.

‘You didn’t…’ he started.

‘Karma’s a real pain, isn’t it?’

What followed was the most dramatic dash to the bathroom I’ve ever witnessed.

The sounds that came from there were… well, let’s just say he was thoroughly emptying his stomach. When he finally came out, pale and sweaty, he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

‘You made me eat DOG FOOD?!’ he screamed.

‘No, Max.

YOU made you eat dog food. The same dog food you thought would be hilarious to give to Eleanor.’

He was furious, threatening to tell the building manager, to call the cops, to beat me up – but we both knew he couldn’t do any of that without admitting what he’d done to Eleanor first.

The next morning, I woke up to find Max cleaning the kitchen – something he’d never done before.

He didn’t speak to me, just scrubbed everything in silence. Later that day, I saw him knocking on the girls’ door across the hall. I couldn’t hear what he said to Eleanor, but I saw her surprised expression turn into a small smile as he handed her what looked like a gift card and actual birthday gift.

Things were tense between us for a while, but something changed after that.

Max dialed back the mean pranks, especially toward people who didn’t deserve them. And he never, ever ate canned food from our pantry again without checking the label very, very carefully.

As for Eleanor, she and I became good friends after I confided what I’d done.

She thought it was hilarious and said it was the best belated birthday gift ever. Max eventually moved out at the end of the semester, and honestly, nobody missed him.

Sometimes I feel a tiny bit bad about the dog food thing, but then I remember the look on Eleanor’s face when she opened that ‘gift,’ and I know he got exactly what he deserved.

Besides, according to the can, it was nutritionally complete.

Living with Savannah during sophomore year was an absolute nightmare. I’m not exaggerating when I say she was possibly the worst roommate in the history of our university.

First of all, the girl had zero concept of personal boundaries.

She’d constantly raid my food stash without asking, but that wasn’t even the worst part. She’d leave her half-eaten meals EVERYWHERE. We’re talking plates under the bed, bowls on the windowsill, cups with weird liquids on my desk.

It was like living with a toddler who just discovered they could put things down and walk away.

I tried everything to maintain some kind of order. I’d clean my side of the room meticulously, organize my stuff, and within hours, her chaos would migrate over like it had a mind of its own.

One morning, I woke up to find her dirty laundry literally on my pillow. WHO DOES THAT?

The breaking point came when I found one of my bowls pushed under her desk with what used to be mac and cheese.

Guys, this thing had evolved into its own ecosystem. The fuzzy green-blue growth was so thick I swear it moved when I looked at it. I couldn’t even recognize my bowl underneath all that science experiment.

I was venting about this to my best friend Katherine one day when she mentioned her roommate was transferring to another school at the end of the semester.

Just like that, a glorious opportunity presented itself. Katherine asked if I wanted to move in with her, and I nearly cried with relief.

That’s when I hatched my plan. Why tell Savannah I was moving out when I could just… disappear?

I started slowly packing up my belongings bit by bit. A few shirts here, some books there. Savannah never noticed — or if she did, she probably thought I was just decluttering or taking stuff home early for the break.

Over the course of two weeks, I managed to smuggle about 90% of my belongings out of that biohazard zone.

The only major things left were my mini-fridge and my TV. The TV was actually the trickier part because Savannah was ALWAYS watching it. She’d binge her shows on MY Netflix account that she somehow got the password for, using MY TV, while eating MY snacks.

The audacity of this girl was truly next level.

Finally, moving day arrived. Katherine came over to help with the last items while Savannah was sprawled on her bed, eyes glued to my TV, watching some reality show. Katherine casually unplugged my mini-fridge and started wheeling it out while I walked over and unplugged my TV mid-scene.

“What the heck?!” Savannah shrieked, sitting up so fast she nearly fell off her bed.

“I was watching that!”

I unplugged the HDMI cable and lifted my TV off the stand. “Sorry, I’m moving out. See ya.”

Her face was PRICELESS. Her mouth literally hung open as Katherine and I walked out with my stuff.

I could feel her staring at my back in complete shock.

“But… but… what am I supposed to do now?” she called after us.

“Maybe clean?” I suggested over my shoulder, not even slowing down.

The hallway door closed behind us, and Katherine and I burst into laughter.

That single moment made months of living in filth almost worth it. Almost.

Savannah never spoke to me again, which was exactly what I wanted. I occasionally saw her around campus, and she’d give me these dirty looks, but honestly, not as dirty as our room had been.

Living with Katherine turned out to be amazing.

We both respected each other’s space, shared food only when offered, and most importantly, neither of us grew science experiments in our dishware. Sometimes the best revenge isn’t some elaborate scheme – it’s just walking away at the perfect moment, taking your TV with you.

When I look back at my college years, that moment of Savannah’s shocked face as I carried out my TV mid-show still makes me smile.

If you’re dealing with a nightmare roommate, sometimes the cleanest break is the most satisfying one.

About three years ago, I bounced between jobs like a ping pong ball – three printing companies in six months. The print industry in our town is pretty tight-knit, so news travels fast.

I started at Cornerstone Printing under Timothy, who was the absolute worst boss I’ve ever had.

This guy complained about EVERYTHING. The sky is too blue? Timothy had a problem with it. Someone worked overtime to finish a rush job? Timothy would find a way to make it sound like they were trying to milk the clock.

Customer loved their print job? Timothy would grunt and say they just had low standards.

I stuck it out for four months before I couldn’t take his negativity anymore. The final straw was when he tore into Jason, this really talented designer who’d stayed late three nights straight to save a huge client project after Timothy had messed up the original files.

Instead of thanks, Timothy ripped into him during the morning meeting, saying his work was “barely passable” and that “anyone could’ve done it faster.”

When I put in my two weeks, Timothy didn’t even look up from his computer.

“Whatever. Good luck finding someone who’ll put up with your mediocre work ethic.”

I’m not usually the revenge type, but something in me snapped. The day before my last day, I came in early.

Nobody was around yet, so I went to the main fax machine – the one we used for all our client communications. It was this ancient dinosaur with surprisingly complex settings buried in these weird sub-menus. Timothy refused to upgrade because “new technology is just a waste of money designed to break faster.”

I dug through the settings until I found the header configuration.

You know, the line at the top of every fax that shows the company name? I changed “Cornerstone Printing Services” to “Barely Adequate Printing, Inc.”

The beauty of it? Timothy never checked his faxes himself – he’d just grab them and hand them off.

And the header is so easy to overlook unless you’re specifically looking for it.

I moved on to my second job at Riverside Graphics, which was fine but not challenging enough. Then I landed at my current place, Pinnacle Designs, where I’ve been happy ever since.

About two months into my new job, I got a call from Oscar, my boss at Riverside.

“Hey, I just got the weirdest call from Timothy at Cornerstone,” Oscar said, trying not to laugh.

“He’s looking for you and sounds PISSED.”

My stomach dropped a little. “Oh yeah?”

“He wouldn’t say why, but he was asking if I knew where you’d gone. I just had to know… did you do something to his fax machine before you left?”

I hesitated, then admitted it.

“Yeah, I might have tweaked the header.”

Oscar burst out laughing. “That’s what I figured! Apparently they’ve been sending out faxes with ‘Barely Adequate Printing’ as the header for almost THREE MONTHS!

One of their biggest clients finally mentioned it yesterday, asking if it was some kind of new ‘humble branding’ thing.”

“Three months?” I couldn’t believe it had gone unnoticed for so long.

“Timothy’s been on a rampage trying to track you down,” Oscar continued.

“But don’t worry, I told him I had no idea where you ended up. Honestly, it’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all year. That guy’s had it coming for ages.”

Turns out, Timothy had sent faxes to at least twenty major clients with that header.

The cherry on top? Their annual bid proposal to the city government – their biggest contract – had gone out with “Barely Adequate Printing” proudly displayed at the top of every single page.

I later heard through the grapevine that Timothy tried to play it off as a “technical glitch,” but the damage was done.

The city contract went to another printer, and Timothy had to personally call every client to explain.

Word spread through the printing community, and I’ve gotten secret high-fives from people who’ve worked with Timothy in the past.

Even Sabrina, who used to be his office manager before me, sent me a thank you card.

My current boss, James, eventually found out. He called me into his office, and I thought I was in trouble. Instead, he just shook his head and said, “I’m not going to ask if the fax story is true, but I want you to know that our IT system gets a full check every month.” Then he winked.

I sometimes feel a tiny bit bad about it, but then I remember how Timothy treated everyone around him, especially those who couldn’t fight back.

A little header change seems like small potatoes compared to the years of verbal abuse he dished out.

For what it’s worth, I heard Timothy’s gotten a bit less nasty since then. Nothing like a little public embarrassment to inspire some self-reflection.

Moral of the story?

Don’t be a jerk to your employees. And maybe check your fax headers once in a while.

Sometimes I wonder if moving closer to my parents was really worth it. At 43, I thought I’d be living my best independent life by now, but here I am in a tiny cottage right behind my parents’ place.

Don’t get me wrong – I love being able to help out since Dad’s memory isn’t what it used to be. But between the cramped space and the constant family drop-ins, it can be a lot.

The worst part about my small living situation is that I have to store snacks on top of my fridge.

This has become an open invitation for family members to stop by and raid my stash. Usually, I don’t mind sharing, but there are limits, right?

A few weeks ago, I treated myself to these amazing gourmet cookies from this local bakery downtown.

They were these massive cookies with chocolate filling, topped with pistachio and salted caramel. Absolute heaven. They cost me $10 each, which is ridiculous, I know, but I’d had the week from hell at work and figured I deserved something nice.

I bought exactly two, planning to savor them over the weekend.

My nephew Noah has been hanging around a lot lately, supposedly helping with maintenance on my parents’ house. At first, I thought he was just being thoughtful, spending time with his grandparents and all.

But I started noticing a pattern – he’d always time his visits for when I was outside working on my parents’ yard, and he’d slip into my place uninvited.

Last Thursday, I was mowing my parents’ lawn when Noah showed up.

We chatted briefly before he said he needed to use the bathroom in my cottage. I didn’t think anything of it until later that evening when I went to grab one of my special cookies… and found both of them gone.

Twenty bucks might not sound like much, but on my budget, it was a splurge.

I sat on my couch and actually cried a little. It wasn’t just about the cookies – it was about boundaries, respect, and the culmination of an exhausting week where the one small joy I’d planned for myself had been taken.

This past weekend, I picked up some digestive cookies for Dad.

He’s got a sweet tooth but has been having some, um, plumbing issues lately. I put a few in a bag for him and stored the rest in a container on top of my fridge. Then I headed out with the family for a Father’s Day lunch.

When I got home, the container was empty.

I checked with Mom, thinking maybe she’d taken them for Dad, but she had no idea what I was talking about. That’s when I texted Noah.

“Hey, did you happen to take the cookies that were in the blue container on my fridge?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he replied.

“That’s weird, because they were there when I left and now they’re gone.

They were special digestive cookies I got for Grandpa.”

A few minutes passed before another text came through. “What do you mean by digestive?”

“They’re designed to help clear your system out. For constipation.”

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times before his next message: “How long do they… work for?”

I couldn’t help but smile as I typed: “I honestly don’t know.

But maybe next time you’ll think twice about taking someone else’s food without asking.”

This morning, I woke up to about twelve angry texts from Noah. Apparently, he had plans with friends last night that got totally derailed by unexpected bathroom emergencies.

He called me petty, childish, and a few other choice words.

I just sent back a shrug emoji. Sometimes lessons need to be learned the hard way.

Mom called later to ask if I knew why Noah had canceled helping Dad with the garden today.

I just said he mentioned he wasn’t feeling well. She also wondered if I knew anything about the missing cookies from my place.

“No idea, Mom,” I said. “But don’t worry about replacing them.

Consider it my contribution to family health.”

I’m not even a little bit sorry. My pantry has remained untouched for three days straight – a new record. Sometimes a little digestive distress is exactly the boundary-setting tool you need when dealing with family who don’t understand the word “mine.”

So I’ve been living with this guy Diego for about eight months now. Great apartment, decent rent split, but there was one MASSIVE problem – the dude couldn’t keep his hands off my food.

I’m not talking about borrowing milk or stealing a cookie.

This guy would eat entire meals I’d prepped for my work week. Do you know how annoying it is to wake up Monday morning, ready to grab your lunch, and finding NOTHING?

At first I tried being cool about it.

“Hey man, that container with the pasta was mine.” He’d always have some lame excuse: “Oh sorry, thought it was leftovers from our takeout” or “My bad, I’ll replace it tomorrow.” Spoiler alert: he never replaced anything.

I’m not made of money.

I work retail, I budget carefully, I spend Sundays meal prepping specifically so I don’t blow my paycheck on lunch at work. Meanwhile Diego works from home as a programmer making way more than me, but apparently cooking is beneath him.

I tried everything.

I bought special containers. I wrote my name in huge letters with permanent marker. I even resorted to hiding food behind other stuff in the fridge. Nothing worked. If Diego was hungry and my food was there, it was going to vanish.

After he ate a lasagna that took me THREE HOURS to make (and was supposed to be my dinner for FOUR DAYS), I snapped.

I needed to teach this guy a lesson he wouldn’t forget.

So that weekend, I went grocery shopping as usual. But this time, I made an extra stop at this specialty hot sauce store. I’m talking about those insane sauces with warning labels and waivers.

I don’t even like spicy food – I can barely handle black pepper – but this wasn’t for me.

I spent Sunday making the most beautiful batch of beef stew you’ve ever seen. Tender chunks of meat, perfectly cooked veggies, rich savory broth.

It looked and smelled incredible. Then when it was done, I separated it into two containers.

Mine went way in the back of the fridge, hidden behind some old juice. The other one – my trap – got dosed with enough ghost pepper and Carolina reaper sauce to make a fire-eater cry.

I put it front and center in the fridge with a big label: “DIEGO – DO NOT TOUCH – MICHAEL’S LUNCH FOR THE WEEK.”

The next day, I deliberately stayed late at work. When I got home around 8 PM, the trap container was sitting in the sink, half-empty.

No note, no text apology, nothing. But I could hear these strange, pained noises coming from the bathroom.

I knocked on the door. “Everything okay in there?”

“Dude,” Diego croaked, sounding like he’d swallowed sandpaper.

“What the actual HECK was in that stew?”

I leaned against the wall, fighting to keep my voice casual. “What stew?”

“The one in the fridge! Your lunch! My mouth is on FIRE and my stomach feels like I swallowed glass!”

“Oh,” I said innocently.

“You mean the container that had my name on it and specifically said ‘do not touch’? That stew?”

The bathroom door cracked open. Diego looked like a complete wreck – face flushed, eyes watering, sweating through his t-shirt.

“But why would you make something so spicy? You don’t even like spicy food!”

“I didn’t make it for me,” I said with a shrug. “I made it for whoever keeps stealing my food despite being asked repeatedly to stop.”

He stared at me for a solid ten seconds before mumbling, “That’s messed up, man.”

“Not as messed up as having to buy lunch three times a week because my roommate can’t respect basic boundaries,” I replied.

Diego avoided me for the rest of the week, but something miraculous happened.

My food stopped disappearing. He even started labeling his own stuff in the fridge.

Two months later, we can actually joke about it. He admitted he was being a jerk and got too comfortable taking my stuff. I might have gone a bit nuclear with my revenge, but sometimes that’s what it takes.

The best part?

Diego’s actually learning to cook now. Says he got tired of takeout and watching me eat “delicious looking meals.” I’ve even taught him a few recipes – none of them spicy, of course. That lesson’s already been learned.

Working at Sandy’s Subs while going to college full-time has been my reality for the past two years. It’s not glamorous, but it pays some bills and works with my class schedule.

I take morning and afternoon classes, which means I’m stuck with the closing shifts. Only 15 hours a week, but man, those hours can feel like an eternity sometimes.

The worst part? I close alone. Just me, myself, and my anxiety trying to handle the cleanup, inventory, and any late customers who decide showing up 5 minutes before closing is a brilliant idea.

Most nights I’m mentally drained by the time 10 PM rolls around.

Last night was especially important because I had an assignment due at midnight that I hadn’t finished yet. I was counting down the minutes until I could lock up and get home.

Of course, the universe had other plans.

Corporate decided it would be super smart to send out these Buy-One-Get-One-Free coupons for after 4 PM. Like, seriously? Who approved that nightmare for solo closers? The evening was non-stop sandwiches. By 9:30, the line was finally empty, and I started my closing duties at lightning speed.

I was doing everything at once – washing dishes, wiping down counters, counting inventory, and praying no one else would walk in.

When 10 PM finally hit, I practically ran to the door to lock up and shut off the open sign.

And then it happened. Just as my hand was reaching for the lock, this guy – let’s call him Diego – pushes through the door.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady even though inside I was screaming.

Diego smirked at me.

“Then how did I get in?”

The audacity of this guy. “I was literally walking to lock the door when you came in. We close at 10, which is now.”

“No, I want a sandwich,” he replied, like I hadn’t just told him we were closed.

He wasn’t budging, just standing there staring at me.

I’m not a confrontational person by nature, and something about this guy’s confidence made me nervous. What if he got angry? I was alone in the store, and it wasn’t worth the potential drama.

Fine, one last sandwich, then I could go home.

“Okay, what can I get for you?” I reluctantly walked back behind the counter.

This dude then proceeds to stare at the menu for a solid three minutes like he hadn’t been to a sandwich shop before.

Every second felt like torture as I watched the clock tick closer to 10:05, then 10:10. My assignment deadline loomed in my mind.

Finally, he ordered the most complicated sandwich possible – double meat, extra cheese, toasted, with a specific arrangement of veggies and three different sauces.

I made it in record time, despite his constant “little more of this” and “not that much” comments.

When we got to the register, I rang him up, told him the total was $14.75, and waited for him to pay.

That’s when Diego pulled out a crisp $50 bill with this smug look on his face.

And that’s when my night turned around.

You see, at Sandy’s Subs, we have this policy: no bills over $20 after 8 PM.

It’s a safety thing, and also prevents the register from being emptied of change. What Diego didn’t know was that I had just done my nightly cash drop into the safe ten minutes before he walked in.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t accept bills larger than $20.” I couldn’t help the slight smile forming on my face.

“What?

That’s ridiculous. Just break it.” Diego was getting annoyed now.

“I literally can’t. I’ve already dropped most of the cash into the safe, which I can’t open. I don’t have enough change.” I moved his perfectly wrapped sandwich just out of reach.

“Do you have a card or smaller bills?”

Diego started patting his pockets, getting increasingly frustrated. “This is nonsense! You have to take my money!”

“Sir, it’s store policy. I don’t make the rules.” Now I was the one with the smug look.

After a minute of searching his pockets and finding nothing, Diego let out an exasperated groan.

“This is ridiculous. Forget it!” And with that, he stormed out, leaving his custom-made sandwich behind.

I watched him march across the parking lot, get into his car, and speed away. Once he was gone, I looked at the sandwich, then at the clock – 10:25 PM.

I still had time to get home and finish my assignment.

If Diego had been nice about it – if he’d apologized for coming in late or had been patient while I made his food – I probably would have just given him the sandwich for free.

But his entitled attitude and complete disregard for my time?

Nope. That sandwich was coming home with me.

I finished wiping everything down, turned off the lights, and locked up by 10:40. When I got home, I sat at my desk, pulled out Diego’s abandoned sandwich, and enjoyed every bite while typing the final paragraphs of my assignment.

Submitted it at 11:52 – with eight minutes to spare.

There’s something uniquely satisfying about eating a free dinner that was meant for someone who thought their time was more valuable than yours. Best sandwich I never paid for.

The moral of the story?

Don’t be like Diego. When a store is closing, either get there earlier or accept that you’re out of luck. And if you somehow talk an employee into serving you after hours, you’d better make sure you can actually pay for it.

So there’s this friend of my dad’s, Stephen, who works as a police officer in our town. He’s been on the force for about fifteen years now, and honestly, he’s one of the good ones.

The kind who actually wants to help people and doesn’t get off on making everyone’s day worse.

I was over at their place for a barbecue last weekend when Stephen told us this story that had me cracking up.

He’d pulled over this guy for speeding – doing like 63 in a 50 zone. Now, Stephen says he’s usually pretty chill about minor speeding. He’ll often mark down the speed a bit or sometimes even let people off with warnings if they’re cool about it.

Anyway, he pulls this guy over and walks up to the car, and right away notices the dude’s window is barely cracked open.

Just enough to pass documents through. Stephen tells us this is always annoying because it makes communication harder and also puts him on edge (never knowing what the person might be hiding).

So Stephen says, “Sir, could you please roll down your window a bit more?” And this guy – let’s call him Max – immediately starts arguing about why he doesn’t legally have to roll his window down further.

They go back and forth for a bit until Max finally relents and lowers it, but then he just had to add, “Shouldn’t you be out there solving real crime instead of meeting your quota?”

Stephen says he just smiled and replied, “Sir, I’m going to be conducting a safety inspection of your vehicle in accordance with state and local laws to ensure your vehicle meets the standards to be driven on public roads.”

Max looked shocked and was like, “Can you even do that?”

Turns out, Stephen absolutely can.

He had actually just completed training on vehicle safety inspections a few weeks earlier. ... Click here to continue reading