In order to capture the depth of nausea that I felt on the day that I got fired, you need to picture me sitting across from my boss in his glaringly sunny office. Then you need to envision giant tufts of wiry white hair sprouting out from the neck of his company logoed polo shirt. If you look two feet behind him, you'll see the star of the show: a dented box that every terminated person has received since the beginning of time. It looks as if someone has jumped up and down on it before hurling it at the brown particle board bookcase that it lays in front of—dead. More »
