The first time I left a job, I just quit. I’d been there for years, and just…left. Guess it was just over. The second job, we came to a mutual agreement that I wasn’t the right person. Scheduling issues. My most recent job came to an end two days ago. I was fired.
Had you asked me a week ago, I would have been fairly certain that termination wouldn’t be how I left. Of course, I would have been wrong.
There is a strange kind of pride that comes from pushing someone to that extreme without real effort. There’s also shame. It’s a confusing mix.
I’m not really upset. I was more bothered by the fact that I’d locked my keys in my car prior to the firing, so I had to hang out in the parking lot while I waited for the locksmith. Ghetto.
I had game night the next day. Woke up this morning with nothing at all on my mind, except a vague thought of cleaning out my car. Maybe this is a sign that I’m better off somewhere else. I hope so.
Either way, I have now left each job in a completly different way. My next exit has a lot to live up to. Maybe I’ll find my doppleganger and install her in my place, with a note pinned on her shirt. “gone fishing-hope this works out”.