HOW TO FAKE NORMAL

THE SECRET SPREADSHEET

Fridays at the startup were supposed to be “Feel-Good Fridays.” Chad said it was about “celebrating wins and cultivating gratitude.” What it actually meant was stale muffins, forced compliments, and a Slack channel called #GratitudeGang that made me want to scream into a pillow.

I was hiding in the breakroom, nursing a lukewarm herbal tea and pretending to read a company handbook when I stumbled across it—an open laptop, left unattended, like a gift from the chaos gods.

The screen displayed a spreadsheet titled: Exit Strategy.

Curiosity is my fatal flaw. I clicked.

It was a list of every employee, their department, and a column labeled “Projected Burnout Date.” Mine was next Tuesday.

I stared at the screen, blinking. Chad had created a literal timeline for when he expected each of us to mentally unravel. It was color-coded. Mine was red.

I scrolled through the list. Raymond the janitor had a burnout date of “Already happened.” Chad’s own name wasn’t on it. Of course it wasn’t. Narcissism doesn’t burn out—it just rebrands.

I printed the spreadsheet. Then I slid it under Chad’s office door with a sticky note that read:

“You forgot to add yourself.”

Ten minutes later, I was summoned.

Chad sat behind his desk, eyebrows raised, fingers steepled like a cartoon villain. “Was this you?”

I shrugged. “I thought it was a team exercise.”

He didn’t laugh. He stared at me like I’d just insulted his kombucha.

“This is confidential,” he said.

“So is my sanity,” I replied. “But you didn’t seem concerned about that.”

He sighed. “You’re very…disruptive.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

I stood. “Look, Chad. I’m not here to optimize emotional ROI or synergize my soul. I’m here because I need rent money and I’m good at pretending to care. But this spreadsheet? It’s not just unethical—it’s depressing.”

He blinked. “It’s predictive analytics.”

“It’s a cry for help.”

He didn’t fire me. He just said, “We’ll be reevaluating your role.”

I took that as a cue to reevaluate my life.

I packed my desk, which consisted of a stress ball shaped like a cloud, a half-used planner, and a stolen stapler. I didn’t feel guilty. The stapler had been through enough.

Outside, Jules was waiting with a donut and a grin.

“You got fired again?”

“Technically, I got pre-fired. It’s like early access to failure.”

She handed me the donut. “You’re still brilliant.”

“I’m still broke.”

“Brilliant and broke is better than boring and rich.”

I bit into the donut. It exploded with jelly and existential relief.

“I need a new plan,” I said.

“Good,” she replied. “I already made one.”