I dug a grave on company time. Still better than checking Slack.

A brief autobiography of an abysmal failure

Hi, I’m an existential imbecile named Max Murphy. Here on The Murphy Memos we explore the absurdity of existence.

Consider subscribing if you’re into that kinda thing.

RIP Baby (yes, he was named Baby).

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Not too long ago, I posted a funny:

This might sound like a generic meme. A brain fart after spending countless hours doom scrolling headlines over the last few years.

But this one was different because it happened to me in real life.

Like most “gifted” kids born to working class families, college was my ticket to the good place. All I had to do was ace multiple-choice tests until the ripe ol’ age of 23, enter the workforce, and climb the corporate ladder like a squirrel on adderall.

And that’s exactly what I did.

Until I got to the ladder. Or should I say, lack thereof.

I had work experience from my own small business. I had 2 degrees. I had a work ethic that bordered on obsessive.

I threw myself at the feet of the system. I begged for a job—any job. I’d sacrificed so much, taken on so much debt, the sunk costs were going to sink my ship.

“There’s still wind in these sails!” I screamed. “This boat’s barely touched the water. I can’t sink already!”

By some miracle, the system threw me a bone.

It wasn’t a dream job, but it was a job.

Just a job, like jobs usually are.

email marketing specialist.

I spent 40 hours per week sending spam emails for $30k salary before taxes.

It was enough to keep me crawling back, but not enough for me to bring my cat to the vet so he died in my backyard and I got revenge by burying him on work hours.

What a fucking week.

I was heartbroken my cat died. But I’ll never forget how digging this hole, wallowing in grief, was still more enjoyable than the slow motion lobotomy that was my job.

Then, covid happened.

Laid off.

And I’ll tell you friend, the only thing worse than having a job you hate is not having a job you hate because in the wild wild West, if you run out of money, we’ll let you die in the streets like an animal.

If only I had made the grave big enough for two.

After another frantic job search, and in between ugly crying, I decided to sell my soul to the tech bros and learn how to code.

Fuck coding. Fuck computers. Fuck tech bros.

I hate every second I wasted. I hate every single person I met. I hate every individual keyboard click in those four years. A hatred so hot and red, it would make the heat death of the universe feel like your car’s seat warner.

My entire life, I was a hooker buying scratch off tickets at a gas station. My jaw was sore. When one of those scratch offs was a winner, I powered through my lockjaw and told every single person who doubted me to fuck themselves. I made it.

It might be the stupidest job working for the stupidest people in the stupidest industry in this big ugly world. But I made it. I could finally afford name brand laundry detergent.

By God, I had achieved the American dream.

But as founding father George Carlin put it, “they call it the American dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.”

Someone suffering from AI psychosis was about to wake my ass up.

I should’ve smelt the writing on the wall when my boss—that alcoholic philistine—told me to start using AI to “be more productive.” It made me sick. It made me wanna throw up and eat it and throw up again.

“I like sincerely hate this is happening.” She said when she broke the news I’d been laid off one day before a 3 year equity bonus that would’ve been my daughter’s college fund.

The salt in the wound was seeing another executive from that company joke about replacing workers with AI on their public LinkedIn profile.

I’m not saying the guillotine noises were intensifying, but they definitely weren’t getting quieter.

Next week is my 29th birthday but it feels like my 79th. I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.

It’s been five years since I buried that cat.

Do you think he would mind a little company?

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