You ever notice that once you finally settle into the work grind—figuring out the ins, the outs, and which bathroom stall doesn’t have a broken lock—it hits you: nothing has changed since high school. Same cliques, same bullshit, same drama… except now you’re older, sore, and they pay you just enough to keep showing up.

HR? Yeah, that’s just the “guidance counselor.” They don’t solve problems; they shuffle papers and preach about “policy” while you slowly die inside. Their whole job is to keep the peace until payday, which usually means telling you to “work it out with your supervisor” — translation: go cry somewhere else.

Line leaders? Overpaid babysitters with clipboards. Ask them a simple question and they’ll act like you just asked them to donate a kidney. But let their boss stroll by and suddenly they’re grilling you about production numbers, failures, and quotas. Like, buddy… it’s on the giant whiteboard and on the stack of paperwork I already turned in. But sure, play hero, make it look like you actually did something today.

Engineers? Oh, they’re the science teachers. And just like in high school, they come in flavors. You got the rare one who knows their shit, helps you, and actually explains things like a human being instead of lecturing from Mars. Then you got the mama’s boy type: creepy, arrogant, probably never cut the cord, walks around with Norman Bates energy. He’ll “answer” your question, but really just mumble some useless jargon before scurrying off. Like that one science teacher who thought memorizing the periodic table was more important than teaching you how not to blow your eyebrows off in the lab. In the end, you’ll fix the problem yourself, because that’s what adults do while he’s still breast-feeding on theory.

Quality engineers? They’re the math teachers. Flip a coin and see what you get. Heads: you get the sharp one who actually knows their stuff and can help you solve the equation. Tails: you get the smug one who looks at you like you’re an idiot for not knowing the “formula” that only exists in their head. They’ll throw numbers at you, act like the answer is obvious, and walk away without fixing a damn thing. Just like math class—you either pass with flying colors or spend the whole year wondering what the hell an “integer” even is.

The training team? They’re the cool older classmates. The ones who already knew all the shortcuts, let you copy their homework, and showed you how to sneak out of class without getting caught. They’ve been around long enough to actually know how things work, and when you get lucky, they’ll show you the tricks of the trade without making you feel like an idiot. Everybody wanted those guys on their side.

Machine shop guys? Absolute legends. They don’t ask questions, don’t give speeches—just fix your shit and move on. Like that kid back in the day who’d burn you a stack of bootleg CDs without charging extra for the Sharpie label.

Co-workers? Oh, we got the full yearbook spread: goths, geeks, skaters, bible thumpers, conspiracy nuts, and your run-of-the-mill weirdos. Some you like, some you tolerate, and some you pray get “lost” in the parking lot traffic.

Assistant leaders? They’re the assistant principals—professional ass-kissers. Yes-men who’ve built a career out of saying “absolutely, boss” with a fake smile while throwing the rest of us under the bus.

The main guy? The Principal. Used to be a quarterback back in high school, didn’t make it past tryouts in life, now he’s here barking orders like this is the big game. Problem is, the “team” he’s coaching wouldn’t even win a scrimmage against the lunch ladies. The customers? In his head, they’re recruiters he’s trying to impress so he can crawl up corporate’s ass.

But here’s the truth: the team sucks, management sucks, and we’re just the waterboys. His wife might help him climb the ladder at those executive parties, but judging by the family photo, those kids probably belong to someone else in corporate anyway.

And that’s why us low-levels prefer staying at the bottom. At least from down here, we can see exactly who’s fucking us.