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We look forward to your response*.

What’s in our minds? What’s in our souls? What do we have to say from our corner of the office while we’re having our lunch alone and in silence? Here you have it. The very depths of our motivation.

*We actually don’t, but you get the point.

Our love letter

Manifesto

We hope this declaration finds you well, or at least before your next pointless meeting.

​

Let us start by saying this is a love letter. Think of it as a valentine crafted from pure, uncut frustration and delivered with a middle finger.

​

We don’t hate companies — specifically. We bear no ill will to any particular business, its over-caffeinated workers, its anxious managers, or its blissfully out-of-touch high-ups. We are not advocating for direct physical violence, just for a collective, screaming exhalation into the void. This is a meaning-of-life intervention. Consider it a one-sided dialogue, done in a shouting voice, that we simply must have.

​

Yes, our message contains frustration. Obviously.

​

We claim to hate the work. We claim to hate the people. Yet, we possess the grim, adult understanding that the world spins because this machine exists.

​

It pays our bills (just barely), it makes other people rich (very), and we, the lubricated cogs, keep spinning in our designated slots. It pays our bills (just barely), it makes other people rich (very), and we, the lubricated cogs, keep spinning in our designated slots.

Our lubrication is often the spiteful comment muttered into the air, the shape of our humor as self-deprecation, the quiet wish for a minor catastrophe to cancel the day. But label it correctly: this isn’t a genuine death wish. It’s a distorted, desperate cry for help. A plea for someone, somewhere, to finally acknowledge that this shouldn’t be the only way to live.

​

Our true enemy is not labor itself, but the utterly unnecessary artificial stress that coats it. The poorly planned tasks that transform, via sheer managerial negligence, into code-red emergencies we’ll all forget about next week. The mandatory retreats where we sit in itchy chairs, maintaining our professional masks solely to keep our roofs. The soul-crushing liturgy of corporate buzzwords in meetings that accomplish nothing. The performative busywork, the frantic clicking when a boss walks by. The profound boredom of tasks and talks that mean less than nothing. The small talk during the coffee break. The questions about the weekend. The fun facts.

​

We are tired of pretending. We are tired of the shared, silent cringe. We all secretly want to run into the streets and shake the nearest person, screaming, “WHY AREN’T YOU AS MAD ABOUT THIS NONSENSE AS I AM?”

​

So here is our toast to every colleague who shows up disheartened, tired, and stressed. Wherever you are, know this: someone else is also dying inside during the same pointless meeting. Someone else is also masterfully pretending to work while hardly working. Your frustration is not a personal failing. It is a logical reaction. We see you. We are you.

​

This manifesto, then, is meant to be an escape valve. A pressure release. A peaceful, digital scream room to prevent the buildup of feelings that could lead to actual, messy collateral damage. Let the steam out here, in words, so it doesn't poison you out there.

​

What we’re building isn’t salvation. It’s a pause. A small, glowing corner of the digital universe where the masks slip for a moment and the collective eye-rolls can exist without fear of HR screenshots.

We want to recreate that strange, quiet comfort, the microsecond in a meeting when someone else’s half-smile or slumped posture confirms they, too, see the absurdity, and for a brief moment, you’re not alone. It’s that spark we’re bottling. A sanctuary made not of productivity or purpose, but of shared relief. A space that whispers, “Hey, I get it. You’re not crazy. It really *is* this weird.”

​

And let’s be brutally honest: at the heart of this, we’re just jealous. We’re jealous of anyone born with the monetary privilege to opt out of this grand, life-consuming pantomime. We’re jealous of those who don’t have to report, for over forty years, from around 9, already wishing it was 5.

​

The machine may never stop. But we can at least stop pretending it’s the only game to play, that there’s nothing more beyond work, and that we enjoy the ride.

​

Love,

​

The majority of the 925 team.

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We look forward to your response*.

What’s in our minds? What’s in our souls? What do we have to say from our corner of the office while we’re having our lunch alone and in silence? Here you have it. The very depths of our motivation.

*We actually don’t, but you get the point.

Our love letter

Manifesto

We hope this declaration finds you well, or at least before your next pointless meeting.

​

Let us start by saying this is a love letter. Think of it as a valentine crafted from pure, uncut frustration and delivered with a middle finger.

​

We don’t hate companies — specifically. We bear no ill will to any particular business, its over-caffeinated workers, its anxious managers, or its blissfully out-of-touch high-ups. We are not advocating for direct physical violence, just for a collective, screaming exhalation into the void. This is a meaning-of-life intervention. Consider it a one-sided dialogue, done in a shouting voice, that we simply must have.

​

Yes, our message contains frustration. Obviously.

​

We claim to hate the work. We claim to hate the people. Yet, we possess the grim, adult understanding that the world spins because this machine exists.

​

It pays our bills (just barely), it makes other people rich (very), and we, the lubricated cogs, keep spinning in our designated slots. It pays our bills (just barely), it makes other people rich (very), and we, the lubricated cogs, keep spinning in our designated slots.

Our lubrication is often the spiteful comment muttered into the air, the shape of our humor as self-deprecation, the quiet wish for a minor catastrophe to cancel the day. But label it correctly: this isn’t a genuine death wish. It’s a distorted, desperate cry for help. A plea for someone, somewhere, to finally acknowledge that this shouldn’t be the only way to live.

​

Our true enemy is not labor itself, but the utterly unnecessary artificial stress that coats it. The poorly planned tasks that transform, via sheer managerial negligence, into code-red emergencies we’ll all forget about next week. The mandatory retreats where we sit in itchy chairs, maintaining our professional masks solely to keep our roofs. The soul-crushing liturgy of corporate buzzwords in meetings that accomplish nothing. The performative busywork, the frantic clicking when a boss walks by. The profound boredom of tasks and talks that mean less than nothing. The small talk during the coffee break. The questions about the weekend. The fun facts.

​

We are tired of pretending. We are tired of the shared, silent cringe. We all secretly want to run into the streets and shake the nearest person, screaming, “WHY AREN’T YOU AS MAD ABOUT THIS NONSENSE AS I AM?”

​

So here is our toast to every colleague who shows up disheartened, tired, and stressed. Wherever you are, know this: someone else is also dying inside during the same pointless meeting. Someone else is also masterfully pretending to work while hardly working. Your frustration is not a personal failing. It is a logical reaction. We see you. We are you.

​

This manifesto, then, is meant to be an escape valve. A pressure release. A peaceful, digital scream room to prevent the buildup of feelings that could lead to actual, messy collateral damage. Let the steam out here, in words, so it doesn't poison you out there.

​

What we’re building isn’t salvation. It’s a pause. A small, glowing corner of the digital universe where the masks slip for a moment and the collective eye-rolls can exist without fear of HR screenshots.

We want to recreate that strange, quiet comfort, the microsecond in a meeting when someone else’s half-smile or slumped posture confirms they, too, see the absurdity, and for a brief moment, you’re not alone. It’s that spark we’re bottling. A sanctuary made not of productivity or purpose, but of shared relief. A space that whispers, “Hey, I get it. You’re not crazy. It really *is* this weird.”

​

And let’s be brutally honest: at the heart of this, we’re just jealous. We’re jealous of anyone born with the monetary privilege to opt out of this grand, life-consuming pantomime. We’re jealous of those who don’t have to report, for over forty years, from around 9, already wishing it was 5.

​

The machine may never stop. But we can at least stop pretending it’s the only game to play, that there’s nothing more beyond work, and that we enjoy the ride.

​

Love,

​

The majority of the 925 team.