IT Unprofessional

People keep asking me how I got into IT. I got into IT because I was too socially awkward for sales and too impatient for engineering. In 2009, I was the only IT person at a 40-person startup. Everything was my fault. Server down? My fault. Email slow? My fault. Someone's laptop got a virus because they opened an email from their own mother? Also my fault, apparently. One day the CEO asked me why our internet was "acting slow." I told him it was probably DNS. I had no idea what DNS was. I just knew it was the answer to everything. He asked me to fix it. I told him I needed $8K in equipment and three weeks. I spent two weeks watching YouTube videos about DNS, bought $200 in equipment, and told him it was fixed. It wasn't. The internet was still slow. But nobody asked about it again because a month later the company ran out of money and shut down. I got hired at the next place and immediately told them our DNS was probably the problem. They believed me. That was 15 years ago. I'm now an IT Director at a Fortune 500 company. My entire career is built on the fact that I got lucky once and nobody's fact-checked me since. Last month someone asked me a technical question during a meeting and I just said "DNS" and everyone nodded and moved on. I'm convinced my entire C-suite reputation is based on a YouTube video from 2009 I watched while pretending to work.

Buying a mattress is the most psychologically invasive retail experience in existence. You walk into a brightly lit showroom in a strip mall and you're immediately intercepted by a man in a polo shirt. My salesman's name was Kevin. Kevin asked me what my sleep posture was. I told him I didn't know because I'm unconscious when it happens. He then asked me to lie down on a display bed while he stood over me making notes on a clipboard. I'm a grown adult lying flat on my back in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon wearing sneakers. Kevin stared at my hips and told me my spinal alignment was catastrophic. He showed me a diagram of a spine that looked like it had been in a multi-car pileup. He said the only solution was a hybrid memory foam mattress that costs as much as a used Honda. I agreed immediately just to make him stop looking at me. Now I've got a piece of furniture that requires a Wi-Fi connection. My bed sends me push notifications telling me my REM cycle was sub-optimal. I miss the days when a bed was just a rectangle of springs that slowly ruined your back in silence.

My office transitioned to a "hot-desking" model to encourage organic collaboration. This is just a corporate euphemism for Lord of the Flies with ergonomic chairs. Every morning's a high-stakes musical chairs competition just to secure a spot near a power outlet. If you arrive after 8:15 AM, you're banished to a wobbly stool next to the industrial printer. The printer smells like ozone and prints out 400-page expense reports all day. Yesterday I sat next to a guy from accounting who aggressively chews baby carrots. The crunching was so loud I thought he was eating drywall. I put on my noise-canceling headphones to block it out. I wasn't even playing music, I was just using them as a physical barrier against human interaction. My manager walked by and tapped his wrist, motioning for me to take them off. He asked if I felt "synergized" with my pod-mates today. I looked him dead in the eye and said absolutely. I then went to the bathroom and sat in a stall for 20 minutes just to experience the luxury of a wall. I'm currently plotting a way to build a fort out of filing cabinets.

My neighbor Gary just escalated the suburban cold war. He mowed diagonal checkerboard stripes into his front lawn. It's a direct, unprovoked act of hostility. For four years we've maintained an unspoken treaty of basic horizontal lines. Now he's bringing advanced trigonometry into landscaping. I stood at my kitchen window for an hour watching him edge his driveway with the precision of a diamond cutter. My wife told me to let it go and that it's just grass. It isn't just grass, it's a public declaration of dominance. Gary's trying to establish himself as the alpha male of the cul-de-sac. I immediately went online and fell down a rabbit hole of commercial-grade reel mowers. I'm prepared to liquidate a portion of my 401k to buy a machine meant for PGA golf courses. I don't even like being outside. I burn if I stand in the sun for more than 20 minutes. But tonight, under the cover of darkness, I'm going out there with a soil pH tester. I'll achieve a deep emerald green that makes Gary question his entire existence.

HR sent an email reminding us that the mandatory team-building offsite is tomorrow. We're supposed to come prepared with a "fun fact" about ourselves. I don't have any fun facts. My life is a series of predictable routines punctuated by occasional bouts of acid reflux. Three years ago, I panicked during an icebreaker and said my fun fact was that I love hiking. I hate hiking. Walking up an incline for no reason isn't a hobby, it's a punishment. But because I said that one thing, my entire corporate identity was sealed. My boss buys me REI gift cards for Christmas. People stop me by the water cooler to ask about my favorite trails. I've spent hours on Wikipedia memorizing elevation changes of local mountains just to maintain the lie. I'm in too deep to confess now. If they find out I lied about hiking, they'll question every spreadsheet I've ever submitted. Tomorrow I have to tell a new fun fact. I'm going to say I'm allergic to apples so no one ever asks me a follow-up question.

My five-year-old was just invited to a birthday party that required signing an NDA. The invitation arrived in a sealed wax envelope via certified mail. The party is for a kid named Jaxson whose parents own a boutique PR firm. The theme of the party is "Old Money." I don't know how a toddler is supposed to be old or money. The dress code explicitly bans primary colors. I had to buy my son a beige linen suit so he doesn't clash with the aesthetic of the bouncy castle. The bouncy castle isn't even bouncy. It's an inflatable muted taupe structure meant for quiet reflection. There won't be any cake because sugar disrupts Jaxson's chakra alignment. Instead, they are serving locally sourced artisanal root vegetables. We are expected to bring a gift that sparks sustainable joy. I bought a $40 wooden block that does absolutely nothing. My son is furious because he wants to go to Chuck E. Cheese and contract hantavirus in a ball pit like a normal kid. I told him we have to go to the old money party because Jaxson's dad has connections at a prestigious middle school. I am compromising my own child's happiness to network over raw turnips.

When did going to the dentist become a micro-transaction? I just had my teeth cleaned and the receptionist spun an iPad around to face me. The screen asked if I wanted to tip the dental hygienist 15, 20, or 25 percent. She literally just scraped my enamel with a metal hook until my gums bled. I am not tipping someone for performing localized torture in my mouth. I panicked and pressed 20 percent because she was standing right there holding a tiny mirror. I just gave a medical professional a $35 gratuity for telling me I don't floss enough. What is the incentive structure here? If I tip 25 percent next time, will she use a softer brush? If I don't tip, is she going to purposefully slip and stab me in the uvula? The receipt asked me to rate my cleaning on a five-star scale. It's a plaque removal procedure, not an Airbnb in Tuscany. I walked out and the automatic sliding doors paused. A voice from the ceiling speaker asked if I wanted to donate $2 to offset the carbon footprint of my x-rays. I sprinted to my car and locked the doors. I'm never eating sugar again just so I can avoid this building.

I tried to organize my Google Drive this weekend. It's now a digital landfill with folder names like "NEW NEW FINAL 2 REAL" nested inside "Old Stuff??" inside "Taxes Maybe". I have 11 copies of the same resume and they all contradict each other. In one version I'm proficient in SQL, in another I'm fluent in Italian, and in a 2016 folder I'm apparently a Scrum Master. I've never opened Jira without crying. I searched for my W2 and Google Drive confidently returned a PDF of a lasagna recipe and a picture of a raccoon. I clicked the raccoon out of curiosity. The raccoon is also stored in a folder called "Important Financial Docs". Past me left zero breadcrumbs and is actively trying to sabotage future me. I tried to create a new clean hierarchy with rules and naming conventions. Five minutes later I dragged a random screenshot into a folder called "Misc" and nuked the whole system. "Misc" is where hope goes to die. At this point my filing strategy is just full-text search and raw faith. If the IRS ever audits me I'm just handing them my laptop and saying "good luck, soldier".

Taking a week of PTO requires more logistical planning than a military invasion. I have to spend 3 days working unpaid overtime just to earn the right to not work. I drafted an OOO autoreply that explicitly states I have no access to email. This is a massive lie. I have email on my phone, my iPad, and my smartwatch. I'm hyper-connected to the cloud at all times. But I need my coworkers to believe I'm wandering through a remote wilderness without cellular towers. My boss replied to my PTO request by asking who is covering my deliverables. Nobody is covering my deliverables. My deliverables are entirely made up. I just move tickets around all day. The company won't collapse because I went to Florida for 5 days. I finally logged off at 5 PM on Friday. Today I got a Slack message from my boss looking for an old PDF. I was standing in line for a rollercoaster in Orlando. I typed out the file path while aggressively eating a churro. I'm never taking a vacation again.

@IT_unhinged a helpful jester

@it_unprofession im the company jester

i'll take any intern i can get

My attempt at a juice cleanse has turned into a hallucinatory nightmare. Day 1: I blended kale, beets, and something called spirulina that looks like pond scum. It tasted disgusting, but I powered through. By day 3, I'm seeing colors that don't exist and conversing with my houseplants. The ficus told me to invest in crypto, and I almost did. My stomach is staging a full rebellion, gurgling like a volcano about to erupt. I snuck a cheeseburger at midnight, and the cleanse app on my phone shamed me with sad emojis. Now I'm convinced the beets are sentient and plotting revenge from inside my intestines. I blacked out and woke up covered in green sludge, reciting cleanse mantras in my sleep. Screw this, I'm ordering pizza and declaring war on all vegetables.

Why is the self-checkout kiosk at the airport asking me for a 20% tip? I'm the one who scanned the $9 bottle of Dasani. I'm the one who bagged it. I effectively work here now. If anything, the corporation should be tipping me for my labor. The screen presented me with three options: 18, 20, or 25%. There was no custom tip button so I pressed the no tip option and the machine made a loud, aggressive buzzing noise. The red light above the kiosk started flashing. A teenage employee looked up from her phone and gave me the Gen Z stare. I felt like a criminal. I panicked and pressed 20 just to make the siren stop. I just tipped a computer $1.80 for the privilege of ringing up my own water. Who does that money even go to? Is it saving up for a motherboard upgrade? Next time I fly, I'm going to drink directly from the bathroom sink like a feral animal.

My therapist asked when I last felt truly happy. I said "when the office WiFi went down and nobody could email me." For 11 minutes, I was a free man. No Slack, no Zoom, just raw uncut silence. Accounting tried to start a conversation about weekend plans. I panicked and pretended to reboot the router. Someone said, "Wow, you really know your way around the network." I nodded like Neo in The Matrix. Eventually IT fixed the actual problem from their NOC in Ohio. Everyone applauded. I clapped too, even though I’d spent the outage Googling “what does DNS actually do.” I haven’t felt that powerful since I was the only one who knew the office printer’s WiFi password in 2016. It was “password.” Nobody has ever checked my work.

Getting your dog into a local daycare is now harder than getting a child into Harvard. I just filled out a 14-page application for my golden retriever Kevin. Kevin eats his own vomit and is afraid of plastic bags. But the facility requires a comprehensive behavioral evaluation and a letter of recommendation. Who am I supposed to ask for a recommendation? The mailman Kevin barks at every morning? That guy hates Kevin. The form asked me to list Kevin's core competencies and conflict resolution style. His conflict resolution style is hiding under the couch until the vacuum cleaner is unplugged. They also demanded a non-refundable $150 application fee. I had to write a short essay on why Kevin would be a cultural fit for their pack dynamic. I wrote that he is a team player who enthusiastically shares his tennis balls. I just got an email saying Kevin has been waitlisted for the summer semester. Sorry Kevin. I failed you.

The guy across the street just waved at me while mowing his lawn. I'm currently drafting a cease and desist letter. We've lived on the same cul-de-sac for 4 years and have never established a visual treaty. Waving is a gateway to small talk. Small talk leads to borrowing a power washer. Borrowing a power washer leads to me being invited to a child's birthday party where I'm forced to eat generic hot dogs. I won't let my Saturday afternoons be compromised by a man wearing New Balance sneakers. I immediately dropped to the floor and crawled to the window blinds like a sniper. I'm now watching him edge his driveway through binoculars. If he looks at my mailbox again, I'm calling the HOA to report an act of domestic terrorism. Boundaries must be enforced.

My fitness ring just informed me that I am technically dead. I bought it to optimize my REM cycles. Instead, it has become a strict digital parent that cyberbullies me about my cardiovascular health. I woke up this morning feeling completely refreshed and ready to tackle the day. Then I checked the app. It gave my sleep a readiness score of 12 out of 100. A pop-up asked if I had recently been hit by a commercial vehicle. I immediately started feeling phantom chest pains. The app suggested I cancel all my meetings and lie completely motionless in a dark room. I tried to drink a cup of coffee and my phone vibrated to warn me about an impending cortisol spike. I'm currently walking around my house at a glacial pace so I don't upset the algorithm. My wife asked why I was tip-toeing to the kitchen. I told her my biometric overlord has placed me on bed rest. I paid $300 to be diagnosed with chronic fatigue by a piece of titanium. If it vibrates one more time, I'm flushing it down the toilet and going back to blissful ignorance.

I decided to become a “5am person” because a podcast bullied me. Some guy with a jawline and a ring light said all winners wake up at 5. So I set my alarm for 4:55 like a try-hard. It went off and my first thought was “absolutely not.” My second thought was “maybe if I film this for TikTok it’ll hurt less.” I stumbled to the kitchen like a raccoon in a human costume. The productivity guy said to journal my intentions. My intention was “go back to bed.” Instead I made black coffee so strong it filed my taxes. I opened my laptop, ready to “get ahead of the day.” I stared at a blank Google Doc for 40 minutes while my brain buffered. By 2pm I was hallucinating smells. The podcast guy called this “the grind.” I called it “medical exhaustion.” Tomorrow I’m waking up at a normal hour and letting "billionaires" have 5am.

Stop telling me about your grandmother's journey across the Atlantic when I just want a recipe for potato soup. I clicked on a link to for a "quick and easy" weeknight dinner. I've been scrolling for 4 straight minutes. I've scrolled past 12 high-definition photos of a wooden spoon. I've read an entire dissertation on the author's seasonal depression. I now know the intimate details of her husband's gluten intolerance and her dog's battle with eczema. I still don't know how many potatoes to boil. There is a jump to recipe button at the top, but clicking it is a trap. It shot me past the ingredients directly into a comments section from 2014. Susan from Ohio commented that she substituted the potatoes with cauliflower and the broth with tap water. Susan gave the recipe one star because it lacked flavor. My kitchen is filling with smoke because I tried to guess the oven temperature. I'm just going to eat a sleeve of saltines over the sink. The internet has completely ruined the simple act of boiling a root vegetable.

HR just scheduled a “casual coffee chat” with me and my manager. The invite has no agenda. There’s nothing casual about that. A casual chat is a meme in Slack and a “lol.” A calendar block is premeditated anxiety. The description just says “sync.” Sync on what? My demise? I checked Workday to see if my job title changed to “Former Employee.” I stalked my own LinkedIn to see how hard it’ll be to spin this. I opened my OneDrive and started emotionally saying goodbye to random spreadsheets. I even cleared my browser history so nobody knows I spent Q1 researching if raccoons can be domesticated. We got on the call. HR smiled and said, “Just wanted to appreciate all your hard work.” I said, “You can do that in an email, Janet.” Now I’m pretty sure I actually am getting fired.

I tried to be the “we host game night” couple. Pinterest made it look wholesome. Everyone laughing, artisanal snacks, a tasteful charcuterie board. Our reality was 8 adults screaming about whether a Draw 4 stacks on a Draw 2. My friend brought his own UNO deck. He shuffled like a Vegas dealer and called my wife a coward for not challenging. Someone knocked over the hummus during a rules dispute. I saw guac on the ceiling. At 9:30 I suggested switching to a chill co-op game. They accused me of trying to reset the meta. By 10, two people were rage-quoting the official UNO Twitter account. At 10:15, my neighbor said “this is why we don’t do game night, it ruins marriages.” He came alone. Next time people come over, we’re just sitting in silence and watching Netflix.