This is my resignation letter. As you may or may not know, this job has done absolute wonders for me. I have learned new skills, gained an honorable salary, and am moving up the corporate ladder fairly quickly. I am also thriving in my personal life as a result of the interpersonal relationships I have developed and nurtured in the office, and overall, am doing really well for myself.
This is why I have to quit. You see, in the office we often talk about “brand.” Our social presence, our market influence, and how our target demographic perceives us on our various platforms, are the pillars of business. Consequently, I too, have a brand, and it is in direct contrast with my new found success at this company, forcing me to make a tough choice about my social identity. Let me explain...
On Twitter, I’m beloved by my 236 followers for my ability to depict my daily, HIGHLY unique cringeworthy interactions in 160 characters or less (HATE the new update btw). Last week, I tweeted something hilarious about how my Chase Low Balance alerts should just be called “alerts” because I’m constantly broke. Clever, huh? I broke my “seven likes” barrier, but realized something disturbing while in the midst of my short tango with fame: How can I look in the mirror, and call myself an honest woman, when I’m making a wage that allows me to live mildly comfortably for the first time? How can I, a digital populist, let my fingers sing the fateful words “What happens when your seasonal depression hits a 4 season run ha ha” to all my loyal followers, when just yesterday I looked up into the sun, and felt, wait...happy, an emotion foreign to me before signing my employment contract. Before this job started, I was the “V” (from V for Vendetta) of Twitter, calling out everyone more successful than me in bitter and unfair ways, and reminding everyone that I, too, am #struggling, just like all the other “raised privileged, now kinda broke but still never really dealt with anything too hard” millennials. And now? Who am I? Just an anonymous “Whom” on every unemployed 20-something’s “To Whom it May Concern” cover line? I've crossed over to the dark side, and it is much lighter, richer, and financially stable than my previous comfort zone. It's mortifying.
It gets worse for my Insta-brand. The picture sharing app has been a game changer in terms of shaping my personal, also HIGHLY unique, aesthetic. I passed a milestone this past year, when I made an Insta Story after drinking a $2 bottle of wine (I noted the low price in the graphic text as I knew people would relate and think it was really “me” of me to drink something so low quality), and letting my nipple show in the INTERNATIONAL spotlight (I have at least 10 followers from Europe as a result of my study abroad semester in London). I finally felt like I was living out my purpose to entertain the masses by constantly not taking care of myself and wearing my very normal, age-related anxieties on my sleeve (which was ripped and frayed because I got it at a vintage shop, which was my whole aesthetic before I got this job and bought a blazer at ANNE TAYLOR LOFT for a whopping $39.99.)
However, this strong sense of identity collapsed last week when my boss praised my “mature demeanor,” and asked to add me on Instagram at our office party, resulting in me senselessly erasing several of my photos where one or more of my nipples was showing. I dropped my phone immediately after I erased the last nip pic, starring at my hands in confusion and disbelief. I felt like a monster, an intruder in Me LLC. I’ve become truly unrecognizable, and my overall Insta page layout has suffered as a result. My social tracking app tells me I’ve lost 6 followers in the past two weeks and it isn’t hard to guess why.
Finally, let's talk about Facebook. An “oldie but a goodie,” many would say. If you scroll back far enough, you’ll get a sense of the batshit rukus that I used to precipitate on my profile. “Fucken turds” was a huge part of my digital vocabulary in 2016, and I still think that’s really hilarious. I even went as far as to change my official Facebook name to “Bob Saget" last March, which is absolutely mad if you ask me or anyone who commented "omg" on the profile change. So you can probably imagine how strange it was for my audience when I went back to “Stephanie D’Agostini” and changed my profile pic to a low resolution head shot a film student took for me in college after I agreed to spread the rumor around campus that he was “the next Greta Gerwig.”
If I haven’t made it abundantly clear, I’m kinda a legend on the internet. My Twitter is uniquely “sad girl,” while my Instagram exudes “young, dumb and broke” in a really literal and unhealthy way . This new position has not only made adults respect me, but it's also given me a solid savings account, and worst of all, self-confidence—basically 2017 brand suicide . While I remain grateful for the opportunity, I think I’m better off battling through my seasonal depression with insecurely quirky and self-loathing Facebook statuses, and by starving myself two days a week just to tell my followers about it via an ironic Kickstarter campaign, which is so funny if you ask me or anyone who donated.
Furthermore, I am a puppet to the people, and the people want what they want, which is for me to continue complaining about my lack of funds while inexplicably paying for an expensive gluten free diet (but not health insurance), and posting vague pictures of myself with smudged mascara with captions like “wut is my life ha ha ha ha ha,” which they really love, and to continue just being fucking miserable all of the time. I think. Or else this was a huge mistake. Hahahah. Which would actually make for some hy-ster-i-cal content later on.