Check your spam folder, Ken. It’s in your contract.
BY ANNABEL MARSHALL — email@example.com
Hi, guys. It’s me. I wrote this in my Notes app so you know it’s serious.
I wanted to let you know that I have realized my wrongs. I am now ready to admit I crossed a line when I asked you to Photoshop the pope doing a keg stand on Mars with each member of the Spice Girls flipping him off in the background. I’m sorry you got death threats, although that could have been because of your personality.
I am deeply sorry for screaming at you when you tried to explain that you couldn’t make the pictures “move” once they were printed. And for assuming all of your names were “Ken” and refusing to call you anything other than “Ken.” And when one of you said your name was James, for calling him foolish, spitting on his shoes and challenging him to a duel.
And I apologize for breaking into the office when you were gone and letting loose that feral raccoon after you refused to make me a fake passport to Venezuela. I’m sorry if you were offended by its rabies. I know Ken-James was so offended he had to go to the emergency room, but that feels like an overreaction on his part.
I acknowledge the hurt you’ve chosen to feel. I’m going to grow and learn. I just wanted to see a Labradoodle riding a Harley-Davidson so fast it ruptured time and space and ran over Abraham Lincoln. And honestly, isn’t that what we all want? The American Dream?
Truthfully, I feel like you guys have had it out for me from the beginning. You didn’t take my side when I suggested we print our own private honor roll of just people who could do cool skateboard tricks or give me $20. I just wanted to be helpful. And to buy a Jet Ski.
When I sent out the mass anonymous email claiming all of you were freelance furry artists in your spare time, you immediately accused me. And sure, you can claim it was because I signed with the name I wanted you to put on the Venezuelan passport, but I know the truth.
And you’re always on my tail about Libel. I don’t know who that is, but if I ever meet her, I’m going to publish a false statement damaging to her reputation.
Plus, technically you can’t prove Photoshopping me into a wedding invitation with my ex isn’t relevant to the job. You’re just like my ex. He hated it when I called him at 4 a.m. too. His name was James.
I’ll be the first to admit that we started off on the wrong foot. And the second to admit that it was partially my fault. Maybe it was a little far to throw money at you and tell you to “work, bitch,” on my first day of the job. I regret using coins. I hope your eye feels better, Ken-Anna.
But I can’t do this on my own. I’ve been staring at Adobe Illustrator for the last two hours, openly crying in California Hall. There’s a class going on in here. I think it’s nutrition. I do not care.
Please just make some new graphics for me. Something less vitriolic than the horror I’ve been assigned this week. They can be a single color. Or, like, a line. I’ll take a line.
I’ve tried making my own graphic — it’s not worth it. I just tried to overlay text on an image, and my computer caught on fire. Save me, Ken-Obi, you’re my only hope.
Written by: Annabel Marshall — firstname.lastname@example.org
Disclaimer: (This article is humor and/or satire, and its content is purely fictional. The story and the names of “sources” are fictionalized.)