[ WP ] You hate your boss , and you 've just won the lottery . Write your resignation letter .

You sit there at your computer screen, hands hovering over the keyboard, waiting. There's a recurring silence that keeps getting broken by the occasional grunt that comes from frustration or confusion. Or both. So far, all you've managed to type is a two line long garbled mess along the lines of `` I really fucking hate you.'' The frustration is building. You remember back to all of those late nights you were forced to work, all those piles of paperwork he gave you, all of the performance reviews filled with passive aggressive nitpicks, trying to remember all of those wonderful, creative, hateful ways you thought to tell him off. Now all you can come up with are compound curses consisting of all the words you would feel uncomfortable saying around your mother. 
 
 It's not that the hate is n't there; it's there alright! You can feel it like a warm, corrosive lump of plutonium sitting right in the middle of your chest. It'll lie dormant for long bouts, and then suddenly something, some little catalyst will set it off. And the anger and rage will slowly build until you feel the need to yell so loud your body will turn itself inside out. The problem is trying to make it coherent: Part of you feels like just stringing together the most obscene insults you can and calling it a day, but it just does n't feel right. Fate has shown you that you are better than him, and you've got to prove it by not stooping to a level below him. 
 
 Another long silence. Finally you growl rather loudly, throwing your hands up in frustration and walk away from the computer. You consider how much it would cost to deliver 500 pounds of fresh manure to his office. You write off the idea since that'd mean trouble for Karen; his receptionist who was always nice to you and was the one always dealing with his shit. You walk over to the fridge and pull out a beer. You pop the cap, and pull out a glass from the counter to pour it into, because you realize somewhat sarcastically that someone with your net worth would never drink beer out of the bottle. You go to pour when suddenly, a memory comes to mind: 
 
 You're in his office, he's yacking on an on about something. Strangely, you do n't sense that much anger attached to the memory ( which is really saying something ) but it seems significant. He gets up from the desk and goes over to his side table. There's a vase, his signed Peyton Manning Football, the picture of his son who seems to be perpetually picking his nose whenever he's at the office. He reaches out and grabs a bottle, and pours himself a drink. It's scotch, it's really nice Scoth. Glenmerengue or some shit like that. He takes a sip and tells you with that shit eating grin of his that one day, if you're lucky, you'll be able to afford alcohol as good as this. Suddenly it all becomes clear. You look at your watch, hoping beyond hopes that the liquor store is still open. You've got a gift to buy. 
 
 You give Karen a wink on the way out of his office. She flashes a smile with just a hint of uncertainty in it. You tell her to pretend like she had no idea what you were putting on the desk and to just keep her head down. She flashes the same smile and says `` Sounds good.'' She does n't exactly seem like the cool under pressure type, but she should be fine either way. The $ 50 Starbucks gift card you slipped her probably helped. You grab your packed up box of stuff on your way out, trying hard to stifle your self-satisfied smile as you walk past your soon to be former coworkers. You wonder what they'll think when he starts yelling from his office like a madman. Luckily, you snapped a pic to send out on the office mailing list before leaving his office: On his desk, a card leans against five carefully aligned bottles of Glenmorangie 18 Year Old Single Malt Scotch. At the bottom of each one sits a carefully inserted dog turd you picked up from your neighbor's yard. It was worth the weird conversation with Mrs. Patterson. The card in front of the bottle reads `` Because I'd rather handle a dog's shit than put up with any more of yours. I quit.'' 
 
 You ca n't help but smirk as you step out of the office for the last time. 
 
 EDIT: Minor grammar and spelling fixes.
