Part II in a new series of personal essays about job loss, mental health, and the undying pursuit of art.
When I arrived that morning, the magazine offices were nearly vacant. Nothing but the dull hum of a thousand overhead florescent lights and the distant clicking of a few phantom keyboards registered a sound. A stack of empty boxes had been left on my desk. Looking at them, they seemed to tell the true story of the last 24 hours: We care, we really do. But please take your shit and leave, itâs time for us to move on. I looked at the boxes, then over at the woman from Human Resources who had escorted me from the entrance of the building to my cubicle. âTake all the time you need,â she said. âIâll check back with you in 10 minutes.â
Read full story here
[Illustration via diftype]
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Fear and self-loathing in America’s Rust Belt, Part II
Part II in a new series of personal essays about job loss, mental health, and the undying pursuit of art.
When I arrived that morning, the magazine offices were nearly vacant. Nothing but the dull hum of a thousand overhead florescent lights and the distant clicking of a few phantom keyboards registered a sound. A stack of empty boxes had been left on my desk. Looking at them, they seemed to tell the true story of the last 24 hours: We care, we really do. But please take your shit and leave, itâs time for us to move on. I looked at the boxes, then over at the woman from Human Resources who had escorted me from the entrance of the building to my cubicle. âTake all the time you need,â she said. âIâll check back with you in 10 minutes.â
Read full story here
[Illustration via diftype]