Thank you for your email! I’m currently out of the office for the rest of my existence and will not be returning. You should have been able to glean this from my Outlook calendar, but here you are, trying to reach me.
It’s clear that you think I will be able to assist you in whatever you need, want, and request, but that’s not the case because, unfortunately, I just can’t be bothered.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I can’t and I can’t even. Whatever phrase works best for you to understand that I can’t help you. I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry. And while we’re at it, I would also say I’m in a “long hair, don’t care” state of mind as well.
So, yes, Margaret, that means I will not be attending the weekly marketing meeting.
If you are trying to reach me so I can attend another mundane, life-sucking zoom company happy hour, you can kindly turn around, leave, and throw yourself into the dumpster out back behind the office because I refuse to attend.
If you are responding with edits to a piece of content I’ve written, I don’t care because I’m not in a position to receive notes nor do I think I warrant any of your said notes since I am absolutely perfect. I radiate ethereal, angelic light and substance. I’m a fucking god.
So, please, no notes, edits, or meeting requests. I will not read them because I am not here.
And do not trouble me with anything else, please, because as I said above, I just can’t be inconvenienced to do what you need me to do. It could be answering a simple email or filling out an expense report. I simply can’t do it, so stop asking. That includes attending your pathetic, team-building event, Margaret.
I see you have opinions on this and think annihilating my inbox will solve your problems, but news flash: I don’t care. Who do you think you are anyway? Someone of importance? Last time I checked you aren’t the president of the universe and even then, what would you be able to do? Tell me what to do? LOL. Adorable.
Besides, you don’t even know me. Sure, we work together, but does that mean you know everything about me? Absolutely not. Maybe I’m secretly a professional woman of leisure, Margaret, and it is my job to reject your ubiquitous marketing requests in the name of relaxation.
So, please carry on your merry way because I am not here to be judged. You can try, but the judgement will bounce off me and be sent straight into outer space where they will rocket, with great force, all the way to Pluto where it will make its orbit (six days and nine hours to be exact), promptly exit that orbit, and be shot back towards earth, passing by Jupiter’s many moons and Saturn’s egotistical rings before entering Earth’s planetary orbit where it will do exactly one rotation and then join the rest of the space trash that circles this fine planet before it slips out of orbit and starts burning up in Earth’s atmosphere as it careens towards the ground, but don’t worry, the heat will turn it into a pebble until it lands, just perfectly, on a major highway where a truck will kick your said judgment magically into a passing garbage truck where it will be carried another 30 miles before it is dumped in a landfill where it will sit in the purgatory of decay until this green earth is burned to rubble.
You are rotting space trash.
What was that? You’re going to fire me?
Well, I guess I can answer that one email you requested.