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I’m sorry for making you cry last week. I know you blamed it on the summer Mumbai air burning your eyes, but all of us on that scrum call knew better. I couldn’t help it though. You haven’t given me an accurate code completion date since the beginning of this release, and I’d about had it. You said you’d be pushing to the production environment on Tuesday. I come to you Tuesday and you say Thursday. I come to you Thursday and you say Monday. I took Computer Programming 101 in college, Pramood, I know how much code is capable of being written in a 40-hour time period. And it’s a fuckton more than you produced for that sprint.
But back to the real purpose of this letter. My apology. I had a pretty shitty week last week. I come home on Thursday night to find my girlfriend on the couch next to an empty bottle of Pinot and the first words out of her mouth are “four of my friends got engaged this weekend. We need talk timelines.” I told her, respectfully, “I’ve been talking fucked up timelines all week and I do not need to add another one to my schedule.” You know, respectfully. She did not take it that way. I now haven’t had sex in four weeks. If this doesn’t work out, I’m hitting you up for an arranged marriage in five to seven years.
Then, my 3 a.m. Uber driver on Monday morning wanted nothing more than to understand what I do for a living. “Why do you travel so much? Wait, you travel every week? That’s so cool! Don’t you think that’s cool? I’ve never even been on an airplane. Have you ever been in a plane crash? God that’d be a horrible way to die. Hey, what do you think about Charlottesville?” I legitimately did a mini cost-ben analysis on opening the door, slowly tipping to the right, and pouring my body onto the highway.
By the time I got to the airport, I had already exhausted through my smiling bucket for the week and even dipped into my patience reserves for the entire year. TSA pre-check didn’t show up on my app, my prescription toothpaste got taken by the agent, and I had to check my bag because of the lack of overhead space on the fucking CRJ-900. On top of that, the plane got delayed two hours because the air conditioning in the cockpit “wasn’t coming out hard enough.” Because that’s a thing.
So yes, pile on 17 more things that went wrong and you’ve basically got my clogged shitter of a day, which of course culminated with our 7 p.m. scrum call. All of my hatred toward the human race came out on that call faster than you could say “Salutations, Mr. Michael. How are you doing this evening?” So I’m sorry. Please take my apology, and I hope you have a Happy Diwali.
…in six months.
P.S. I’m also sorry for all of the curse words in this letter. I know my swearing makes you nervous-laugh like a hyena, which is really awkward for all of us involved. .