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My 67 year old coworker is destroying my will to live.
The image does not depict the actual subjects of the story. Subjects are models.
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The image does not depict the actual subjects of the story. Subjects are models.
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Nothing triggers this office energy vampire quite like a millennial with a slightly more efficient way of doing things, which, in her mind, is just another opportunity to declare logging into Chrome a moral failing. Any chance to supervise, she’s there, checklist in hand. Any chance to correct, she’s front and center, audience assembled. Her pièce de résistance: constantly demoting her peer to “little helper” while occupying the exact same job title, conveniently forgetting that Napoleon never promoted his hat.
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The image does not depict the actual subjects of the story. Subjects are models.
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A day at work becomes a competitive sport, where every story, shiver, and inconvenience must be one-upped by her own tragic anecdote. Freezing? She’s glaciers. Swamped? She’s Noah’s ark. Missing limbs? She’s already hopped fifteen miles on one.
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