Dear Bosswoman, Assistant Bosswoman, and Jim; 

I am giving my two weeks notice. 

In two weeks I will be moving out of the cubicle and I will be taking my name plate, which I made myself, using a folded piece of printer paper and a pen that I found in my desk from D’Amore McKim School of Business. 

The rest of my possessions—an eight-ounce arrowhead water bottle that I keep in my desk drawer, a red felt tip marker that I use for editing, and the comic strip that I tore out of the Boston Globe and pinned to my cubicle in an attempt to lighten up the mood— I will leave to Jim. 

Jim, I think that you will like the comic. It’s a sketch of a typical office, with a maze of cubicles and employees, where a single mouse that asks the human workers, “Have we found the cheese yet?” 

I hope that when you look at that mouse, you will think of me, and remember that moment that we shared at the printer, when we thought that it was broken, but I actually just hadn’t pressed the print button yet. That was funny too, was it not? 

And yes, Assistant Bosswoman, I know that you asked me to return the red marker when I was done editing that 57 page report written by the other interns, but I forgot. I just promised it to Jim and I think that it would be incredibly inconsiderate of me to offer him the pen, and then not actually give it to him, especially since this might be the last interaction that we ever have. 

And on that note, I want you to know that this is nothing personal: it’s not you, it’s not me. It’s the system.   

(And please convey this sentiment to Bosswoman because I fear that she won’t have the time to read this letter.)  

All this time I’ve been just like the mouse in the comic, I’ve been searching for the cheese. The only thing is, there is no cheese. And by that I mean that there is no free cheese for the interns. Or more aptly, no free food whatsoever. There is only filtered tap water. 

And I’m trying to offset the costs of this unpaid internship because it’s starting to add up. I’m spending $15 a day on coffee, half of which is decaf, because I am weaning myself off; another four dollars a week on seltzer water, because our water has no bubbles; And $4.20 a day on public transportation.

And I can’t walk. Sure, it’s only a three-mile commute, and I’m in decent shape, but the city is just not safe enough to traverse on foot. I tried once, and I got attacked by a goose.  

And I shouldn’t have to get attacked by waterfowl after a long half-day of sitting in a cubicle and editing out Oxford Commas with my red pen. I have too much self-respect for that. 

I think that I deserve to be paid. I’m trying to offset my costs with free food, but it’s not easy. There is only water, and occasionally, mints. 

And it’s hard to drink eight dollars worth of water an hour. My bladder is only so big, and the bathroom is pretty far away from my desk (88 paces, I counted). And the candy dish, which I pass on the way to the bathroom, has not been restocked for weeks. So I have little incentive to want to leave my cubicle. 

And this candy dish! This is my biggest complaint. Putting an empty bowl on a table in the kitchen is inhuman, especially as some of us interns are relying on those Brach’s Cool Blue Mints to get us through the work day. 

But even if it were full, the candy dish wouldn’t be enough. A five pound bag sells for about $20. That’s about 375 pieces. I would have to eat 150 mints an hour for it to equate to minimum wage. And I’m not sure that I want my breath to be that minty. 

This is also just assuming that I’m only worth the bare minimum. Which I also don’t think is true. I think 12 dollars an hour is more fitting. That’s 75 more mints, plus benefits— which I’m not sure how to quantify, but I’m sure, that with all of this processed sugar and cubicle sitting, I’m going to need a good medical plan and gym membership. 

So no. The mint plan will not work. I must leave. And I’m giving you guys two weeks, or one, depending on when this article is published. A fortnight from the 24th, I will fill my water bottle for the last time, take the aforementioned objects from my cubicle, and pray to God that the geese haven’t figured out how to navigate the bowels of Boston’s public transportation. 

In the meantime, I hope that this letter does not change the office dynamic. And that in the event that I apply for another (paid) position in a related field, one of you will be willing to write a stellar letter of recommendation on that official letterhead stationery. 

Also, I wouldn’t mind object to some sort of going away celebration in the conference room — maybe we can get cake? 

Sincerely,  

Nicole J. Levin  

Intern to Assistant Bosswoman

Nicole J. Levin ’15, an FM editor, is a government concentrator in Dunster House. Her column will appear every two weeks this summer.