The Joy of Eating By Alex Noonan (@lx_borden)

I was 28 when I discovered that I had an eating disorder. It happened inconsequentially and without much ado. I Googled something, there was a small “click” inside my brain, and then my life changed.

If you ask my family, I’ve always been a “picky eater,” but that explanation was never satisfying to me. For me, “picky eater” implies choice, and I’ve never felt as though I had that. But, I was also never able to develop another succinct way to describe what I was actually experiencing.

I could only use mouthfuls of words, like, “I avoid going to friends’ houses for meals and parties where they’ll serve food.” Or, “I need the name of the restaurant. I have to check the menu before we go.” Or, “I’ve eaten the exact same foods every single day for years, and I dissociate while I eat to avoid getting sick of anything.” 

It was a feeling, more than anything, and nobody really knows what to do about those. Nor do many people have the patience to hear about them. So for a very long time, I simply ignored the problem and worked around it.

Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder is relatively new to the DSM-5 and used to be called “Selective Eating Disorder.” It primarily affects children, presumably because now, children can be treated for it and avoid carrying it into adulthood. And it’s characterized by what is essentially any number of food anxieties. 

We’re worrying if the food was prepared correctly, if we’re going to choke on our food, if we’ll get sick from the food, or have an allergic reaction. We agonize over what a menu will be like and what we’ll do if we can’t find food whose texture, appearance, smell, and flavor all align with our very specific and narrow tastes. We have lists of safe foods and lists of “danger” foods. We have panic attacks over the mere thought of eating certain things.

And many of us do not want to live under the control of ARFID. We do not want to pick the restaurant all the time or to avoid them altogether. We want to go to a birthday party, or a cookout, or a first date, and not be concerned about whether there will be food we can eat. We want the thrill of trying a new food we’ve never tried before on vacation. We want to let it all go and enjoy eating.

For my entire life, I have avoided food as much as possible without starving. Feeding myself was a chore, a task that one must accomplish at regular intervals. I would often be frustrated that health science hadn’t progressed to the point where I could simply take a pill and be done with eating for the day. The only foods I ever really took pleasure in eating were baked goods and sweets.

I didn’t understand this almost sacred devotion to food that I would see in media or in other people I knew; I found the concept fascinating and alien. From a young age, I would watch cooking shows like Emeril Live, Rachel Ray, Good Eats, and Unwrapped. Later it became shows such as Hell’s Kitchen, Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives, Chopped, Worth It, and Parts Unknown. 

I watched like an anthropologist, at times trying to imagine how the dishes smelled and tasted. Once, when I was in high school, I watched a marathon of Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives and made a list of all the meals Guy ate that sounded like they’d be tasty. It made my mouth water. But I made no move to actually attempt to eat any of it

Then at 28, I started to meet with Dr. Moss, a dietitian. She confirmed the diagnosis I had discovered for myself by mistake. And for the first time, someone asked me a lot about how food made me feel, and I told her: bad. 

I told her about my childhood experiences, of friends’ mothers who wouldn’t let me sleepover. And about my parents making me sit at the dinner table all night when I wouldn’t eat what they served. I told her about the embarrassment of being a teen and young adult who can’t explain why they mostly eat chicken nuggets, even at Olive Garden. I told her I wanted to travel, or maybe be a vegetarian, but those things and so much more felt entirely out of my grasp.

I felt trapped by rules my body was making without me, and I was starting to lose interest in my small roster of “safe” foods. Every night before dinner, I was having emotional meltdowns over the prospect of having to eat yet again. I wanted to understand the joy of eating. I wanted to feel like less of a burden to everyone around me, but I was also terrified of what would happen to me if ARFID took my good foods away from me, too. I wanted to know why I was like this, but more importantly that I could change.

I took small steps, utilizing talk sessions with Dr. Moss and exposure therapy to “danger” foods--mostly vegetables--and slowly, I saw a change. Some of my fear began to drop away. Then the panic attacks before meals subsided. After over a year of meeting regularly, I began to see significant shifts. I was not only unafraid, I started feeling bold. Adventurous, even.

One day, I got an ad on TikTok for HelloFresh, the meal kit delivery service that probably all your favorite podcasts advertise. I’m not sure why this HelloFresh ad was so different than all the others I’d seen, but this one hit me hard.

This service would give me a list of meal options I could choose from every week, removing the anxiety I would get around deciding what to make for myself. They would deliver the ingredients for these meals weekly, so I wouldn’t need to determine a week’s worth of meals before going to the grocery store. I could select meals with foods I wanted to try in them. Because I would only get enough ingredients to make two servings, I wouldn’t have to worry about wasting a large amount of food if I didn’t like it (or couldn’t go through with eating it).

I would get to maintain complete control over every aspect of the meal, from selection to cooking to assembly, down to what on the plate I put into my mouth. I took the discount code and downloaded the HelloFresh app to order my first set of meals. 

When I explained my plan to Dr. Moss the next time we met, her eyes went wide, and my heart fell. Oh no, I thought, maybe it’s too much.

“That…” she started slowly, “...is a really incredible idea.”

My first box arrived six months ago with four meals, two servings each. Preparing to make the first meal made me feel like I was on my own Emeril Live, despite never having cooked something that didn’t come frozen. 

I got to use kitchen utensils I hadn’t previously known the name of and was surprised to see that I owned them. The recipe card instructed me to “pick fronds of dill,” and I had to Google what that meant--I understood fronds in theory but not in practice. I had to YouTube “how to mince.” Then, later, I had to look up, “is it true spaghetti sticks to the wall when it’s done” (no). But that night, I ate something I made from scratch, containing several things I would not have typically eaten, and it was delicious.

I was downright giddy. My partner high-fived me. The following night for dinner, I felt untouchable, like I had cracked the secret to life when I repeated the process. By night three, I found myself sagely nodding as I ate, finally understanding the reason why there is not a pill you can take to be full all day. I could see why people would not only tolerate but even enjoy eating. I was enjoying eating.

On night four, I decided to push myself and tried some broccoli. It was probably the world’s smallest piece of broccoli, but I cooked it, willingly placed it on my plate, and knowingly put it into my mouth. When I swallowed it, I almost cried with joy. It tasted so… green. And I didn’t throw it up! I didn’t take another piece, but I felt like I could have, and that in itself was such a delicious victory.

I felt so damn happy.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Alex Noonan on Twitter @lx_borden.

What Brings You Joy By M. Dalto (@MDalto421)

As Sarah J. Maas once wrote in a little book called A Court of Thorns and Roses:

"Don't feel bad for one moment about doing what brings you joy."

Though uttered by my least-favorite character in the series, the words still ring true, and it took me a long while to accept the deeper meaning behind them.

At this time last year, I was struggling to find anything to return joy back into my life.

This year, I’m barely able to find the time to enjoy that which brings me joy.

It’s a vicious cycle, and I’m still trying to figure out who to blame.

I am going to be bold and say that 2020 was not kind to anyone. As 2021 rolled in, we looked forward to a new year of hope and positivity and possibly refinding those things that we once enjoyed doing when the fear of the outside world wasn’t a factor. But as doors reopened, so too did the obligations we were able to put aside. Tenfold.

If my post from last year was any indication, I was unable to write anything new for about a good year. 2021 was going to be better and I was going to find my muse again and for a little while, it looked like things were headed in that direction…

And then I was without a co-worker to help shoulder the burden of the real estate market’s bubble that refused to burst despite the ebbs and flows of the pandemic around us.

That small moment, when I finally felt as though I had reignited my creative spark, was smothered by none other than my full-time employment obligations. Obligations that were not going away any time soon (and still haven’t, even after all this time).

Plans and plots and outlines and deadlines were pushed and forgotten as the pressure of my 9-to-5 was quickly becoming my 8-to-8. Full disclosure: I couldn’t even get this blog post back in time because of the tunnel vision I’ve become so accustomed to just to make sure I can complete my day job so that it doesn’t become my former day job. 

And as the days grew longer, the time I had to re-embrace my joy grew shorter. I was coming home at night and crashing on the couch or crawling right into bed. Only to have to wake up to do it all over again until the weekend arrived, and then any free time I had was devoted to spending time with the family I poorly neglected because I was working all week.

Enough was enough.

But not before the burnout settled in.

Just in time for summer.

So you know what we did?

We got vaccinated and booked the first vacation in almost two years and unplugged and enjoyed ourselves, leaving behind the stress and anxiety of the ‘real world’ as much as possible for as long as we could.

And I think it worked.

I returned to the full-time job with a fresher outlook, and I sat down with our Human Resources manager and I made it known. I think they listened.

Or at least I think they did. Or the real estate market has lightened up and I’m finally able to get home on time. 

That same week I wrote new words for the first time in a long while. I made a plan to write more too. I’m even considering new projects that are actually going to bring me…

You guessed it.

Joy.

So, to recap:

The pandemic is/was horrible.

Burnout is also bad.

Self-care is invaluable.

And never forget what brings you joy.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow M. Dalto on Twitter @MDalto421.

The Joy Hoard By Beth Hudson (@TFiredrake)

I’ve learned from battling chronic depression that I need to be very aware of what brings me joy. I hoard joy, because I never know when I may need to be reminded of its presence. And there are so many things that fit into that box on the shelf, like a childhood toy chest that keeps treasures from long ago.

To me, joy is usually a deep content, an upwelling of peace and the sense that everything is right with my world. Those are the quiet moments, which are as simple as they are beautiful: a fresh snowfall on New Year’s Eve; the shine of autumn leaves in a gentle rainstorm; the glitter of water in a large, still lake.

Laughter with friends. Ordering takeout on a night when I’m bone weary. A long, hot, soaking bubble bath. Early morning sunrise, streaks of pink and orange striping the sky like melting sherbet.

What usually comes with these times is a lessening of urgency, of the sense that there are things that have to be done to make things right. It is about allowing myself simply to be, not to constantly do. I haven’t forgotten for a minute that the world is an imperfect place, and that there is a tremendous amount of suffering in it; I’ve just let myself acknowledge for a little while that I’m allowed space for myself, too.

Surrounding myself with certain kinds of things, tangible or not, can help to enhance that sense of joy. Beautiful and moving music can take me there faster than anything else, though it’s not a guarantee; sometimes music tugs so hard at my heart that it shakes loose all the pain of living. Reading can also do either of these. And frankly, it’s all right when it squeezes out the pain instead of the joy, because sometimes I don’t let myself feel enough. Often, I let myself slide over pain and joy both, and lose the joy because I’m afraid to experience the pain.

I seldom have active joy, the kind that makes me laugh in delight and excitement and crow to the world that something has gone wonderfully well. Still, I’m not utterly devoid of it. Those surges of joy light up the darkness like lightning flashes. When I was first asked for a novella from my short story editor, I was profoundly joyful. When my son finally got engaged to his long-time girlfriend, I was ecstatic. When I gave birth to my three children… words may be my trade, but there are no words I can use to fully describe the exultation I felt on bringing those lives into the world. It was when I truly understood that lightning really was hotter than the surface of the sun.

I think those kinds of joys are about accomplishment and love, both of which I struggle to accept.

As a writer, I will sometimes open that box to take out the memory of a treasured joy and lay it like a gem into the setting of my stories. I write a lot about pain and trauma, but it’s important to have those bright moments flash into the darkness, because they remind the characters—and the reader—what their struggles are for. And sometimes I’ll give my characters those brilliant, lightning joys and not take them away, because they give characters and the readers alike something to hope for. Real joy isn’t unadulterated, because life itself isn’t unmixed. I want my stories to have that truth in them, but my box may sometimes be a bit like Pandora’s, and contain hope.

And occasionally I will open that box for myself and take out those memories, setting them on the shelf to polish until they’re glistening, and reminding me that joy is always part of the world, even if I sometimes have trouble recognizing it.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Beth Hudson on Twitter @TFiredrake.

I Owe Myself Joy By Gillian F. Barnes (@geezfresh)

A writer who says writing brings them joy? well, obviously, but for me, it really is that simple. Writing brings me joy in two ways; professional achievement and therapeutic.

Writing professionally has always brought me praise. Even as a student, I was able to earn high marks easily and win competitions, and these days it provides me with both full-time income as a part of my day job and side hustle cash. It's very real validation for something I find enjoyable. Validation of that kind makes me happy.

Personally? Now that one is a bit harder to explain, but it goes back to why I make art of any kind-I am processing my world therapeutically. Back when I identified as a primarily visual artist, I used my work to explore my innate loneliness. Even when I'm with others, and despite how I may present, I often feel outside of things. That same theme runs throughout my current work in progress. Exploring loneliness and less unpleasant emotions in fiction can hurt, but ultimately it makes me a happier person.

What I'm saying is that the art of writing about very real, raw scenarios, conjured or no, in a journal or in another longer form allows me to release some of the things I allow to hold me back, de facto making me happier. As of late though, I haven't been able to write in that way. I think about writing for me, and I simply can't. It isn't writer’s block, but rather there is such a buildup that it feels impossible to process. Part of me knows I must do it because, to be honest, I haven't been joyful much lately, but the rest of my being is screaming to go the ostrich route.

I want to get back to being joyful and I suppose telling you that by writing this down is the first step. If you don't see me writing-I will be doing it, but not all of the contents of my mind is fit for print. I promise to work through things-somehow. I owe myself joy.

The Joy of Positive Feedback By KL Forslund (@KLForslund)

As everybody with an electric guitar does, I taught myself to play the Star Spangled Banner. Then I lugged my amp out to the driveway, and at the height of the local fireworks show in the neighborhood, I played it cranked up to eleven. The music reverberated in my bones and I could feel it in my chest. To finish the piece as the notes tumbled through my fingers and into the strings, I stepped closer to the amp and the magic moment happened. When the notes from the amp resonated in the strings and the body of the guitar, the universe opened up and for a moment, I became the god of heavy metal. Working the whammy bar stretched it out to a screeching crescendo. Then it was done. The perfect moment of instrument, music, and feedback completed. I think a neighbor clapped. My ears might have been ringing.

Of Course We Want Some

Ignoring the old sourpuss who doesn’t care what people think is easy. That guy wouldn’t be saying that if he didn’t want feedback. See how it works. We’re wired for it. There’s science buttons inside of us that get pressed when others notice what a good boy we are. I think we get a little lopsided in how we treat those buttons. Like it’s a sin to press them or the only game in town. Perhaps a bit of both is true.

Set the EQ

It’d be shallow to seek out compliments all day. I’m pretty sure someone like that would fall prey to empty sycophants and yes-men. In equal measure, I’d worry about somebody who can’t accept some praise. Life is hard, and sometimes your work stands out. Pause and warm yourself to the spark that somebody else got from you and amplified it back to you.

Made to be Heard

Every now and then, somebody tells me they liked something I wrote. It made them laugh, cry or think. That warms the cockles of my crusty heart. I write to affect people. If I only wrote for myself, I’d keep a diary. I don’t understand writers who say otherwise. You mean you spent time making a manuscript, editing, publishing, and it wasn’t meant to be read. Bull cookies.

A man making noise in a place where people can hear him, means to be heard. So we all want to know if it worked.

Make a Joyful Noise

I know somebody will find a mistake I made. And they’ll tell me. Somedays, it seems like more people are doing that than saying what they like. The world might be a better place if we all paused to tell somebody we liked their work. Not just the fancy pants big folks everybody clicks the like and adds a comment. But the little guys. That indie author would love to know you liked their book. The kid at the sub shop who feels like part of a replaceable part of the machine might like to know the sandwich they made tastes great. If you ever notice how often you don’t say anything, those silences could be filled with a good word or two.

Maybe you’ll feel it in your chest, like I did. Feedback is a circle.

If you liked this piece, please follow KL Forslund on Twitter @KLForslund.

Untitled By Jamie Thomas (@thatjamiethomas)

Find ecstasy in life; the mere sense of living is joy enough.

Emily Dickinson

I’ve spent the better part of the last seventeen months in my house. It has been both a privilege for which I am deeply grateful, and a source of helpless frustration for all the while as I’ve stared at the same four walls and walked the same wood floors and slept beneath the same dusty chandelier, the world outside has been burning. I am generally a happy person, though prone to anxiety and catastrophic thinking, even when there is no definitive reason for it. There has been little cause for happiness of late, and more than enough reason to worry. 

It seems impossible under such circumstances to hope for joy, to say nothing of the guilt in seeking it when so many have lost so much, but of all the lessons these seventeen months have forced me to learn, it is that joy is essential, else living is just surviving, and it is not as difficult to find as one might suppose when faced with such tremendous fear and futility. In fact, it is in the face of such demons that our defiance to yield becomes our joy. 

Through this defiance, I discovered happiness in the small and insignificant, and in things that I had forgotten, or pushed aside, casualties of a life that drives one to exhaustion: An evening hike; a trip to the farmer’s market; the weeding of a vegetable patch; the brewing of a cup of tea. I listened to albums in their entirety, and spent hours working on a puzzle, a thing I have not done since childhood. I rolled my own beeswax candles and collected moth wings and Mabon bags and botanical prints, littering my workspace with them not because they served any real function, but because I liked to look at them. And I started collecting crystal champagne coupes even though they are impossible not to spill from, because they are also impossibly beautiful. 

Perhaps the most wondrous of these discoveries old and new was the rekindling of my love of reading. Since becoming an author, particularly one with contracts and deadlines and expectations, I’ve set less and less time aside for the stories of others in order to write stories for others. What a marvelous thing it has been to become reacquainted with books again, to find those which captivate you so fully that there is a certain sort of heartbreak at their ending. 

Best of all, I have spent untold hours with my family, sometimes in laughter and sometimes in easy silence, and it has been all the sweeter for knowing how precious it truly is. Difficult times bury some, but for others, they are the blindfold that heightens the senses, the rush of adrenaline that accompanies a brush with danger, reminding us of the precarious nature of life, and to cherish it.  

I have spent the better part of seventeen months in my house, and I am certain I will spend many more here as the world continues to burn and I continue to defy. Someday, when we are past this, if we are ever past this, I will seek joy outside these four walls. Until then, within these four walls, I will find joy in a life well lived.  

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Jamie Thomas on Twitter @thatjamiethomas.

What Brings Me Joy By Paulette Hampton (@PauletHampton42)

Nothing brings me joy.

Joy isn’t brought to me.

It’s already in me.

Deep within, under layers of worry and stress.

A lot of times I keep it in a dark corner, letting things like deadlines, arguments, and everyday irritations take center stage.

I can even ignore it by overlooking the tiny soft moments or someone’s kind word.

But it’s always in me.

It comes alive when I stop for a moment, when I’m still and quiet and notice the gentleness and awe of existence.

Joy leaps from my heart when it recognizes itself in the outer world.

But 

Only

When I take

The

Time

To 

Acknowledge it.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Paulette Hampton on Twitter @PauletHampton42.

THE A.P. MILLER GUIDE TO WORKPLACE MAYHEM (Or: The I’m Tired of Being Gainfully Employed Manifesto) By A.P. Miller (@Millerverse)

FOREWARD: Many thanks and much gratitude to Gillian for allowing me to participate in her Writing With Others Event! I had a lot of fun last year, it was a great opportunity to get my work in front of others, and stretch my wings. Thank you, Gillian, and may your enemies always be reminded that their parents had sex at least once!

Gillian’s theme this month was “joy.” I’m not the type of person who can just sit around and be joyful — blame it on watching raunchy TV shows on MTV in the 1990’s, or a steady diet of brain rotting video games for the Sega Genesis console, but I’m someone with a very particular funny bone. To sit and think about what makes me the most joyful, only one answer comes to mine: family friendly mayhem!

Mayhem comes in many forms and my favorite flavor of mayhem is the light “you weren’t hurt, but now you’ll always wonder what I’m capable of” kind of mayhem. My favorite place to get my daily dose of mayhem is the workplace! To celebrate my joyful feelings, allow me to present to you: the A.P. Miller Guide to Workplace Mayhem.

[DISCLOSURE]: the author is not responsible for your untimely, and well deserved, termination from your job. Should you elect to engage in such workplace antics, you shouldn’t be trusted around income practices anyways. You’ve been warned.

Tactic One: The “Oh, You Didn’t Get the Email” Gambit. Every workplace has that one asshole who is always in everyone else’s business. If it weren’t for this one person the sun would shine brighter, grass would be greener, and you’d might actually win the lottery. Chances are this workplace hemorrhoid noses in everyone’s business and has a fetish for gossip. In order to battle this workplace busy-body, take the following steps:

1. Walk into their office/cube/workspace with a grin like the cat that ate the canary.

2. Say to this person: “Can you believe the email we just got? I can’t believe so many people are being let go!”

3. When your colleague (who we’ll call “Dances with Douche”) says “What email?” you get stone faced and say “Oh. ...nothing.”

4. Leave the office and avoid them for the rest of the day.

You may be thinking to yourself “but A.P., it’s cruel to make someone worry about being terminated,” and you’d be right. However, I’d like to counter your sentiment with a question. Has this person ever cut you any slack? If not, then f*** ‘em.

Tactic Two: Religious Reasons. Admittedly, this tactic works better if you’ve already invented a fictional religion like I have. You can’t use an actual religion on the off chance the recipient of your chicanery is a practitioner, so you have to come up with a loosely plausible faith system, which you can quote at a moment’s notice. For this guide’s sake, we’ll assume I’m a practicing Homerite — a follower of Homer Simpson.

Don’t want to try Martha’s Potato Salad at the company picnic? You have to abstain for religious reasons. Our most venerated leader, Homer, was a man of labors and we can’t eat of the fruit of another labor while we labor. Think your boss’ joke sucked? Don’t laugh. Laughing at a joke that starts with “two guys walk into a bar” is sacrilege according to the Testimony of Bart.  You think Mildred looks like two sloths are fighting to get out of her green dress on St. Patrick’s Day? Green is a sacred color, as our most venerated leader, Homer, toiled in the glow of green warmth.

This IS NOT making light of folks who have to abstain from things because of actual religious reasons. In fact, your workplace mayhem might even make an easier time for your faith-diverse colleagues. Maybe Jeff in Accounting will think twice before whining how annoyed he is that people are offended by his jokes. Maybe Marvin who delivers the disposable bidet tips won’t subtly cat-call the others in the office. If people have to wonder what may offend you, they will wonder what offends everyone. If your co-workers are offended because people are offended, then f*** ‘em.

Tactic Three: the Landmine. We all have that one co-worker that talks like they’re waiting for the paternity test results on the Maury Povich show. Let me be clear, this person is not your target, but your ammunition. Your target could be anyone, for any varying reason. Here’s how you set the landmine:

1. Wait for a moment when you, your target, and the landmine are in a communal space, or at least one where everyone is in earshot.

2. During a moment of pause, you pick a topic that the landmine is passionate about, and you tell the landmine that the target was asking about that subject. (Ex: “Hey, Tim, Henry over here was talking about global warming, you follow that, right?”)

3. Walk away, leaving the target in the blast radius.

Sure, the target can also walk away, but they’re getting heat no matter what they do. If they walk away, they look like an a**hole. If they stay, they have to endure a marathon ear-f***ing. That’s why it’s called the landmine.

Tactic Four: Job Shadowing. It may seem like old-hat, making someone fear for their employment, but hitting someone in the wallet is how you make it hurt. For this tactic, you need some time where you being away from your job duties won’t be noticed. You approach a co-worker you dislike, with a pad and pen, and do the following:

1. Ask them what their daily duties are.

2. Ask them where they keep their lists of clients & contacts.

3. If they ask why, you tell them that Dave Benton, the Regional Supervisor of Processes asked you to compare your position to another, and then say nothing else.

4. Randomly ask your co-worker if there isn’t a more efficient way to do that task.

5. Curtly say “I’ve seen all I need to see here. Thank you for your time,” and leave without explanation.

What makes this even better is that your co-worker is going to go to their supervisor and tell them — the supervisor won’t have the first clue who Dave Benton is, and then your co-worker looks like an a**hole twice. If their supervisor approaches you, you ask “Who is Dave Benton?” This is Multi-Layered Mayhem © (2021-2022 A.P. Miller)

Finally, Tactic Five: Micro-Mayhem. Everything we’ve discussed so far requires planning and strategy. Sometimes you need single-serve mayhem for one-use chicanery. Here are some of my favorites:

1. Cut out paper spiders or roaches and tape them to the inside of lamp shades.

2. Cut a square of post-it and put it on the bottom of an optical mouse.

3. Take a picture of the president of the company, and cut out miniature versions, and tape them to conspicuous places in the bathroom. It weirds people out.

4. Take all of the condiments in the communal fridge and arrange them alphabetically, OR, numerically according to their calories. Co-workers will notice a difference and won’t be able to figure out your reasoning.

5. Take blank pieces of paper, fold them in an envelope, and label them “two week notice.” Leave these hanging out on your desk. If your boss opens one, you know he’s an a**hole. Regardless, he’s going to sweat it out.

Thank you for reading my guide to workplace mayhem! Don’t blame me when you get fired, it’s your own fault.

Thank you again to Gillian for the opportunity to be seen on her blog and I’ll look forward to doing it next year!

Sincerely,
The Reigning Archduke of Mayhem
A.P. Miller

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow A.P. Miller on Twitter @Millerverse.