Dear Boss,

I have a confession to make. I probably should have told you a long time ago before things got out of hand. I guess I should start at the beginning, back when I started working here. I was a recent college grad looking to find a way to stand out among my homogenous peers and I have to admit that I did not play fair. I took steroids.

Yep, that's right. I woofed down a fresh batch in the car on the way to the interview. I may even have had some on the cracks of my lips when I greeted you. And that spectacular performance I put on in Conference Room 2? That was the ‘roids. Of course you had no choice but to hire me.

I wish I could say it stopped there. On the first day of work when you asked me to stand up and introduce myself to the crowd and I made that funny joke about pig farming that just killed, it was the juice I had huffed in the break room, not me, bringing down the house. 

Remember that day you told me my face looked shiny right before I broke the all-time company single day sales record and I responded that it was a new moisturizer that I was trying out? Yep, you guessed it. It was an oil-free version of "the cream" that wouldn't clog my pores.

And then that meeting with our biggest client where I just kept saying the right thing and they loved me so much that they signed that enormous deal with us despite the fact that it appeared that I had a boner. That was no boner. I was shooting up during the meeting. 

Finally, there was that day when I asked if I could take your daughter out after complaining about having cottonmouth. You didn't know it, but I had just ripped a massive bong hit of the stuff right before I walked in. Don't worry, I have already placed an asterisk next to that notch on my belt.

You may have wondered why the copier always seems to have a paper jam, but nobody can find the jam. That's where I keep a stash. And that lump in your $3000 ergonomic back chair that you always complain about is just another hiding place for my little helper. Have you ever noticed the 33 boxes of baking soda in the fridge in the kitchen? That's not baking soda. The nonworking towel dispenser in the bathroom, the ceiling tile that keeps falling down, inside of the dry erase markers…. These are all places where I keep my junk. 

I feel really awful that I have allowed things to get this bad.  I just wanted to be good at my job even if I had to cheat. You had no way of knowing that it was the steroids and not me that you just promoted to vice president. But now that you know the truth, I'll be cleaning out my new corner office and heading on my way.

Oh yeah, you're probably wondering about that company softball game when I hit the game winning homerun and everybody carried me on their shoulders all the way to the bar. Nope, that was crack.


Eric Ott