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

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

We don’t hate companies, specifically. No particular business, manager, or caffeine-addled worker is our target. We’re not calling for violence, just a collective, thunderous exhalation into the void. This is a meaning-of-life intervention disguised as a rant. A one-sided dialogue we simply need to have.

Yes, there’s frustration here. Obviously.

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We claim to hate the work. We claim to hate the people. But we also know the machine makes the world spin. It pays our bills (barely), makes other people rich (very), and keeps us, the lubricated cogs, turning. Our lubrication is sarcasm, self-deprecating humor, and that quiet wish for a small, harmless catastrophe to cancel the day. It’s not a death wish—it’s a distorted cry for help. A plea for someone, somewhere, to admit that this can’t be the only way to live.

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Our real enemy isn’t labor itself. it’s the artificial stress that coats it. The botched planning that becomes a sudden crisis, the “urgent” tasks no one will remember next week. The off-sites with itchy chairs and the corporate sermons masquerading as motivation. The endless parade of buzzwords and “fun facts,” the small talk, the fake enthusiasm, the frantic clicking when a boss walks by. We ache not from work, but from the absurd theater of pretending we enjoy it.

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We’re tired of pretending. Tired of the shared, silent cringe. Deep down, we all want to shake someone by the shoulders and scream, “WHY AREN’T YOU AS MAD ABOUT THIS NONSENSE AS I AM?”

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So here’s our toast to every colleague showing up tired, burnt, and quietly furious. Know this: while you’re dying inside in that meeting, someone else is too. While you fake productivity, someone else is performing the same pantomime. Your exhaustion isn’t a failure; it’s evidence you’re still human. We see you. We are you.

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This manifesto is an escape valve, a safe way to scream, to let the steam out before it poisons you outside.

What we’re building isn’t salvation. It’s a pause. A small, glowing corner of the digital universe where the masks can slip, and collective eye-rolls exist without fear of HR screenshots. We’re chasing that quiet comfort, the fleeting moment in a meeting when someone’s half-smile or slumped posture tells you they, too, see the absurdity. That’s the feeling we’re bottling. A sanctuary powered not by productivity but by shared relief. A space that whispers, “You’re not crazy. It really is this weird.”

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And let’s be honest: underneath it all, we’re jealous.

Jealous of those privileged enough to opt out of this forty-year pantomime of “meaningful work.” Jealous of anyone who doesn’t have to spend their waking life pretending to care.

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The machine may never stop. But we can stop lying about loving the ride.

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Love,

The majority of the 925 team.