Mind on Fire Books

As a Federal employee caught in the whirlwind of unexpected resignations and agency cutbacks, I’ve been grappling with a mix of emotions—uncertainty, frustration, and a touch of surreal absurdity. The ongoing debates surrounding the legitimacy of these actions by the current administration have only intensified this experience, leaving many of us in limbo. This is what life after the fork feels like for many of us.

To process these complex feelings, I’ve turned to writing. It became a therapeutic outlet, allowing me to navigate the chaos. The result is this new fiction satire, “Life After the Fork.”

This story introduces you to a group of federal employees, much like myself, who find solace in a support group called “Fork Survivors Anonymous.” Through lively dialogue and a blend of absurdism and intellectual banter, the group transforms their shared frustrations into humor and solidarity. They joke about new career paths and entertain the idea of escaping to a commune where emails can’t reach them. Beneath the laughter lies a profound exploration of identity, purpose, and resilience.

Writing this piece has been more than just a creative endeavor; it’s been a journey of self-discovery and healing. I invite you to read “Humor and Healing: Life After the Fork” and join me in this exploration of resilience and the human spirit. Whether you’re a fellow federal employee or someone facing unexpected life changes, I hope this story resonates with you.

Life After the Fork

The fluorescent lights flickered ominously in the ceiling of the community center’s drab basement. Every Tuesday night, this uninspired room transformed into a sanctuary of sorts—a haven for those of us who had been unceremoniously jettisoned from the bureaucratic behemoth we once served. The sign taped haphazardly to the door read “Fork Survivors Anonymous,” a cheeky nod to the fork in the road that had led us all here.

I shuffled in, the aroma of stale coffee greeting me like an old friend. The chairs were arranged in a misshapen circle, as if symmetry was too much to ask at this point. Linda was already there, perching on the edge of her seat with the poise of someone who’d scheduled one too many virtual appointments.

“Hi, everyone,” she began with a wry smile. “I’m Linda, and I’ve been ‘forked.’”

A chorus of chuckles rippled through the room. Mike—the former PR guru whose press releases once spun straw into gold—leaned back and chimed in, “I tried to resign, but my computer froze. Divine intervention or just outdated software?”

“Perhaps the universe is telling you to stay put,” quipped Sofia, the ex-IRS agent whose auditing skills were now reserved for overanalyzing take-out menus.

We laughed because, really, what else could we do? Humor was the glue holding together the fragile pieces of our disjointed identities.

“Did anyone else consider becoming a professional dog walker?” asked Raj, the one-time educational agency consultant. “I mean, dogs are less demanding than stakeholders.”

“Only if the dogs come with student loan forgiveness,” I retorted. The group erupted once more, the sound of our laughter bouncing off the water-stained walls.

Amidst the levity, there was an undercurrent of something more profound—a collective grappling with our newfound purposelessness. Jessica, who had spent years at the Department of Energy optimizing renewable resources, sighed.

“I spent yesterday reorganizing my spice rack,” she confessed. “Alphabetically and then by country of origin. Is this what life has come to?”

Mike leaned forward, his eyes gleaming mischievously. “Maybe we should all move to a commune. Somewhere emails can’t reach us, and the word ‘deadline’ refers only to crops.”

“Ah yes,” Linda mused. “A utopia where the only bureaucracy is deciding who milks the goats.”

“Count me in,” Sofia laughed. “As long as I don’t have to audit the goats’ milk yields.”

We fell into a comfortable silence, each of us entertaining the absurdity of abandoning it all for a simpler life. The idea was ludicrous, of course, but entertaining it felt like reclaiming a sliver of control.

“Do you ever wonder who you are without your job title?” Raj asked softly.

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Life After the Fork, continued:

The question hung in the air, startling in its sincerity. I glanced around the circle. Eyes that moments ago sparkled with mirth now searched for answers in the scuffed linoleum floor.

“Depends,” Mike finally replied. “Is existential dread a marketable skill?”

“Only if you can monetize it,” I said. “Maybe start a podcast.”

Jessica smiled faintly. “Welcome to ‘Dread Time with Displaced Professionals.’ Featuring weekly specials on imposter syndrome.”

“Sponsored by insomnia and overthinking,” Linda added.

We laughed again, but this time the humor was tinged with a bittersweet flavor. The truth was, we were adrift, clinging to jokes like life rafts in an ocean of uncertainty.

“At least we’re in good company,” Sofia offered. “Misery loves… uh, what’s the phrase?”

“An open bar?” Mike suggested.

“I’ll drink to that,” Raj agreed, raising his Styrofoam cup of tepid coffee.

In that moment, it struck me that this support group wasn’t about solutions—it was about solidarity. We weren’t here to fix each other’s problems; we were here to bear witness to them, to validate the unspoken fears that kept us up at night.

“Maybe we’re asking the wrong questions,” I ventured. “Instead of ‘Who am I without my job?’ perhaps we should ask, ‘Who do I want to become because of this experience?’”

“That’s uncomfortably optimistic of you,” Linda teased.

“Don’t worry, it’ll pass,” I assured her.

“Well, when you figure it out, let us know,” Jessica said. “In the meantime, I propose we compile our best resignation haikus.”

“Ooh, I like that,” Sofia grinned. “Here’s mine: Offices are bleak / Freedom calls beyond the screen / Out of office—on.”

“Brilliant!” Mike applauded. “We could publish an anthology. ‘Poetry for the Professionally Puzzled.’”

“Or ‘Sonnets from the Severance Package,’” Raj added.

As the session wound down, the room felt lighter, as if we’d collectively exhaled a breath we didn’t know we’d been holding. We gathered our things, the mundane acts of packing up feeling almost ritualistic.

“Same time next week?” Linda asked as we headed toward the exit.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I replied.

Stepping out into the cool night air, I realized that while the path ahead was obscured, it wasn’t entirely bleak. After all, every great story needs a plot twist, and perhaps this was ours.

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