Slavery’s over, but your boss still thinks owning you is part of the job? So what?

Let’s fucking go.
So your boss is a narcissist. Boo-fucking-hoo. What were you expecting, a saint? A mentor? A team player? Someone who gives a microscopic fuck about your mental health or your career growth? Wake the fuck up. This isn’t a Pixar movie. It’s a capitalist dick parade where the most insecure, ego-driven, power-stroking, empty-suited fuckbags float straight to the top like turds in a jacuzzi.
You thought you were joining a team? Cute. What you joined is a cult. Starring one overpaid, underqualified walking pile of narcissistic shit who thinks leadership means weekly gaslighting sessions and emailing you at 10:59 PM to remind you who owns your soul.
This sack of shit manager, let’s call him Chad, or Karen, or fuck it, Supreme Douche of the Month, has three skills. Taking credit for your work and delegating his laziness and talking over you in every meeting with the confidence of a TED Talk and the IQ of a wet sponge.
And every time you try to raise a concern? You need to be a better team player. Translation: shut the fuck up and keep feeding my ego, peasant.
You already know this. People don’t quit jobs. They quit these walking narcissistic hemorrhoids disguised as managers. And HR? Don’t even think about it. HR exists to protect the company from you, not to protect you from the company. Cry to HR and watch them turn your complaint into a LinkedIn training module and a passive-aggressive email blast about maintaining professionalism.
So what’s the fucking move?
You can’t fix them. You can’t out-nice them. You can’t win their approval because their approval system is a broken vending machine that only gives out blame. Your options? Play them. Feed the ego. Smile, nod, and say Great idea when they repackage your idea. Then use their arrogance against them. Let them underestimate you. Document everything. Then strike when it counts.
Plot your exit. Quietly. Strategically. And when you go, leave a trail of receipts so long that when this narcissistic fuck eventually implodes, and they always do, you’re already three pay grades above them, flipping them off from a rooftop bar.
Or if you’re truly Carlin-level pissed, stay. Outlast. Rise. And then one day be the boss who fires that motherfucker with a smile and a severance package stapled to a dildo.
So yeah. Your boss is a narcissist.
So fucking what?
You’re not powerless. You’re not crazy. You’re not weak. You’re just surrounded by cunts in suits who mistake authority for intelligence.
Now sharpen your mind. Polish your spine. And stop handing your dignity to some power-tripping middle manager who thinks your paycheck includes your soul.
And if this rant hit a nerve, good. That means you’re still alive.
Now do something about it before the next all-hands meeting eats what’s left of your sanity.