Here is My Resignation on a CVS Receipt

Katy Goforth

I am thrilled to inform you
I am not your
mediocre employee
with a good attitude.

I have
a shitty attitude.
An attitude making people
walking down the office hallway
take a sharp left at the first sight of me.

Don’t tell me,
“Smile, it can’t be that bad.”
Because it’s much worse.

I don’t want an insulated lunchbox
with the company logo.
I don’t need another tumbler
branded by the very people who
have opened the door for themselves
and locked it shut behind them.

I am thrilled to inform you
I won’t take on
any extra work just because
I’m efficient with my time.

In fact, I will suggest that you,
for the first time in your career,
make it happen yourself.

I am thrilled to inform you
I will no longer be attending
the holiday party
with a cash bar.

I don’t care
that you will feed my spouse
or one guest
from my household.

I’m contracted
to spend eight hours
each work day with you.
That’s eight too many.
My R.S.V.P. is hell to the no.
I ain’t coming.

I’m not mediocre.
I might be sitting in this CVS parking lot
in my shitty car
with only the letter “C” from the neon sign
spilling the tiniest bit of light
onto this two-foot-long receipt.
But I’m not mediocre.

It is with great pleasure
that I’m putting you on notice.

Consider this CVS receipt
a receipt full of my shopping list
of tampons and liquid eyeliner
and a single bag of peanut M&Ms,
my personal manifesto.

I’d say more.
But you don’t deserve my words
and I’ve run out of room.