Open-plan’t it be? Oh cubikindling dawn, softlog-on and wellcoffee’d!
Nudged from REM-bytes to the lightmode world, Mr. Tomlin K. Link, Knowledge Worker III, rose from the bedsheetdeck, duvetdived and postdreamstupored, slapping his face with a snoozeloop fivefold.
O Morningstandup! O DailySynculus! O SprintRetrospectacle!
Bootup and bleary, blue-ring buffer spinning in his socketmind: Dreamsgone please wait loading...
CLICK
Slacketh spake:
👋 just looping you in real quick
per our last convermurmuration
any updates on the deliverababble?
Pingeth! Pusheth! Pile-on-oneth!
To-Don’t lists growing like mold on the dashboard of the soul.
Kettleboiled thoughts:
🌀 Circle back on it, slide it in the deck, double-click, double-click.
🌀 Deck it like halls, pitch it like tents, drop it like it's hot, pivot it like the platform's burning, baby.
🌀 Run it up the flagpole and A/B-test its synergy.
And o the Zoomroom doomrooms!
Galleryviewed and galleryjudged, muted like monks but camera-on’d like clowns,
faceboxed and frametamed, nodbots and mutesneezers.
Can everyone see my screen? We lost you forasec. Sorry I was on mute! (Always were.)
Excelcel googsheets collabbled version 1.2_final_final.xyz,
with commentghosts haunting cell C13:
"Can we unpack this?"
"This seems misaligned with KPIQOKRs."
Memos from the midfloor.
KPIs from the towersky.
Somewhere PowerPoint crashes.
Somewhere a middle manager cries into their reusable floodbottle.
As per my previous email he types he deletes he typesagain.
Lunchbrake:
A step outside into the vape-smoke-sunlight where ZippyCart™ minions zip by whirr and pigeons peck at fried regret.
He chewscrolls.
Licks a burritowrapped doomscroll.
Sees an ex-colleague TikToking joy.
Sees a LinkedIn post:
Thrilled to announce I've left burnout culture to build burnout tools at my new AI startup!
—Return.
The Chair awaits like a data-throne, lumbar cursed, armrests sticky with legacy decisions, spun from the foreskin of a visionary founder.
He sits.
He spreadsheets, piggybacking on past success.
He reply-alls in tongues of circleback and low-hanging amen.
4:49 PM:
Gary looms.
Gary with the airpod of judgment.
Gary of the eye that sees who logs off.
"Heading out already?"
"Just circling back on a few more deliverables."
"Great. Loop me in tomorrow."
Down the elevatorstream he descends,
past the kombucha tap,
past the beerfridge nobodyevertouches,
past the ping pong table unplayed,
past the Mission Statements that no longer mission.
Homeward in noise-cancelled silence.
Face aglow with Inbox.
Soul aglow with notifications.
Tomorn nextloop:
Reboot.
Resync.
Regret.
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