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To Whom It May (Not) Concern:

Many of you have never worked with me, have never shared a beer with me after those “optional” kickball games, or even know who I am. Nevertheless, as is custom, I must take this opportunity to let all of you know that I am leaving our company.

I could let all of you know that the year-and-a-half I spent as a mid-to-lower-level employee has been the greatest opportunity of my life; or, I could tell you the truth… in the form of a metaphor. My time here is a lot like the Hillary Clinton campaign: At first, it felt inevitable, the only option available. But then, over time, it unearthed almost everything plaguing our society.

Nevertheless, I must acknowledge the many things I learned during my time here, such as the fact that “Going forward, touching base on best practices allows us to take advantage of the low-hanging fruit;” or, “When I have more bandwidth, let’s get a download on our ducks. Are they in a row?” And as I will certainly miss seeing pictures of Karen’s dog during my day’s only peaceful moment, or getting trapped in the elevator with Richard (we share a commute, and that is all), I am moving on to the greener pastures of unemployment. Thank God my parents are rich.

No, I do not know what I am doing next. Please, please do not ask me, as it will ignite the thinly-veiled pain vibrating beneath my sweaty surface. Yes, I am going to update my LinkedIn to say “Freelance Consultant” and probably make a Wix site for my “services;” although we both know the only consulting I will be giving is to my dog. “Have you considered employing a footrest model? It will help scale your growth up to the couch.” Even he is nervous at the prospect of spending more time with me. Also, I am still single. I thought I would preemptively mention that before you start Slacking.

Speaking of Slack gossip, I want to take this opportunity to dispel any rumors:

My decision to leave is a mutual one, as in my immediate supervisor and her manager mutually agree that I should no longer work here.

Given my already unorthodox approach to departure, instead of inviting all of you to a happy hour at the forgettable, overpriced bar next to our office—where everyone will pay more attention to their phones than to me—I invite you to dedicate your next yoga practice to me, that is, if you do yoga. If you do not do yoga, please disregard this message entirely.

But seriously, don’t be a stranger. Call, text, LinkedIn, whatever. If you have my Gmail, can you please put me in touch with anybody who works at Outdoor Voices? If you don’t… well, whatever.

Rest assured, I will be seeing some of you soon, to our mutual dismay, in the line at Whole Foods. Or, perhaps at the holiday party, which I would not miss for anything short of pancreatic cancer.

Robin Doody

Thinks of himself as the love-child of Tim Riggins and Max Fischer.

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