Sometimes working in the corporate world makes you want to... well... quit working in the corporate world. Sometimes, while sitting in the typical "Dilbert" style boring meetings, I ponder ways I would exeunt if I were to say, win the lottery, have a bestselling book, be given a large amount of money from a dead relative I didn't know, or perhaps have a rich Persian oil family come and stake claims that I am their long lost daughter. An avid reader of various "odd news" type articles, I see these things happen all the time. It's in the news, people, which means it must be real. If a foreign man can get his ears chewed off in a Bulgarian bar fight, I can be a Persian with my fair skin, blonde hair, light eyes, and freckles, alright? But I digress...

Clearly my first choice would have to be quitting over something completely ridiculous. The important thing in all of these methods is not to let on that I've a good reason to leave or that I can even afford it. This is especially key in the first method, as you will see:

Example: "Krystal, did we order any more colored legal pads? I can't seem to find them."

My response: "Son of a bitch! I fuckin' hate you guys! They're not colored legal pads! What is this, the 1940s? They're legal pads of varying shades! Dammit! I hate this place! Screw you all! It's not my job to ferry about your legal pads! What, should I get a little flight attendant uniform and march around the office asking, ‘Coffee? Post-its? Legal Pads?’ Bah! See you in hell! I'm outties!”

Option two would involve faking a midlife crisis at the ripe old age of 25. (Note that I'm assuming I'll amass my fortune within the next year due to my amazing skills, luck, or alleged lineage.) I would ride into the parking lot on a Harley, covered in fake tattoos that I found in various products such as Hawaiian punch and cereal boxes. I'd probably dye my hair bright blonde for this occasion and definitely hire myself a male escort (or two) to walk me into the building where I would present my letter of resignation with a smile, announcing that I'm going to be a blackjack dealer on the Carnival Funship. I'd give away my desk accessories saying they are useless to the "young at heart," offer words of wisdom about experiences I've never had, talk about the good old days of my youth, and then ride off on my Hog in a blaze of glory, baring my breasts to the parking lot.

My third method would be pretending that I've lost my mind. This would of course be rather like the previous two methods, only with even more histrionics. I'd have to find a sequins bikini. I could make use of the giant orange foam cowboy hat that I already have next to my desk, so that's a plus. Other items on the checklist would include my rubber strand of bandito bullets, a six-foot tall pink flamingo named George Hamilton, and a capuchin monkey well past sexual maturity. The hat would add effect when I proclaimed, "I'm the sheriff in this town, and I'll say when it's time for me to mosey on.” The monkey, of course, would violently attack any coworkers within the length of his leash (which is about 16 fathoms long), and the rubber bullets are just to emphasize the bikini with their complimentary colors. I would also need a giant button with a series of Jack Kerouac quotes so I could loudly proclaim, "That man freakin' saved my life with his wit and wisdom" while alternately sobbing, laughing hysterically, and pulling out my arm hairs with tweezers because "my two headed llama hates it when my hair is softer and more valuable than his."

The fourth and final alternative should be obvious. I'll go into work like it's a normal day. I'll have the usual morning conversations with my coworkers, maybe even attend a meeting or two. Around mid-morning I'll go get a Cherry Coke Zero in a 20 oz. bottle. After two sips, I'll spill the coke all over the desk and drop to my knees shouting, "OH THANK YOU LORD!" I will then proclaim to have seen the perfect image of a Baby Buddha in the Splenda-filled bubbles. I will announce that he has told me the secret to life and then insist upon reading from a Spanish translation of The Indian in the Cupboard until security drags me away, at which point I will scream about how everyone is missing out on the obvious truths in life and that they won't need computers where I'm going because Mighty Zeus is in charge of process management there.

These are just some options...