Resignation from the Doormat Dimension

The diner smelled sorrow so intense it might curdle milk, like a pancake murder scene with syrup and burnt toast. If she sneezed, Clara sprawled in her go-to booth—the one with a seat so ripped—flashed her panties. Her notepad was open, her pen hovering like it was about to turn on her to the FBI, but after a Target run the page seemed thinner than her bank account. Outside, the neon sign sputtered as though the mothership were drunk-dialing. Clara thought, I'm done, seeing her reflection in the greasy window. Not with her librarian job, where she performed Book Babysitter for minimum pay, not with the faucet in her apartment spitting like an angry llama, but with something far more delicious: the Human Footwipe. She was ready to light the fuse and Yeet that sad-sack variation of herself into a black hole.

The current Doormat Olympic champion was Clara. The one grinning through her mother's verbal shanks asked, "Clara, why can't you be more like your cousin who sells essential oils and has a yacht?" While her sister Jenna executed body shots off the picnic table, the person who stayed at family cookouts scraped congealed macaroni off dishes. Even as her soul screamed, the one who would chirp—Totally fine!—when her employer slammed a last-minute project on her desk is one email away from arson. For thirty-two years, Clara had been a walking welcome mat, gladly stepped on by everyone from her mailman to her cat, Brontë, who viewed her like, You're a disgrace to animals. However tonight? Once sent a trucker to the ER, her resignation letter to the universe was going to be spicier than Deb's "surprise" hot sauce.

She started writing and laughed like she had just spiked her coffee with Red Bull.

Officially, Clara Marie Ellison is rage-quitting the gig of Human Footwipe, right now, with no take-backs. A toxic smoothie of guilt, social trash, and my own spineless urge to be "nice," this role—which I was misled into—is getting dropped into the sun. From smiling through my mom's roast sessions to saying "no prob," when I mean "I'm plotting your demise," and letting everyone else's mayhem use me as a punching bag while I play Emotional Roomba, I have been the MVP of the Doormat Dimension. However, I'm done. Donello. Final Thought. I'm burning the remnants from my Footwipe uniform.

Clara cackled, scanning the diner. Deb, the waitress, was arm-wrestling a mustard bottle that was clearly winning. A trucker was whispering sweet nothings to his coffee, probably because it didn’t talk back. The world didn’t give a rat’s patoot about Clara’s mutiny, which was perfect. She didn’t need a fan club; she needed a megaphone and maybe a grenade launcher.

The Human Footwipe was born when Clara was a kid, learning that “good” meant “invisible.” Her mom, a woman with a laugh like a car alarm and a PhD in Passive-Aggressive Studies, ate it up. “You’re so easy,” she’d purr, while Jenna, Clara’s hurricane of a sister, got grounded for stealing their neighbor’s lawn flamingos or spray-painting “YOLO” on the garage. Clara’s prize for being good? Nobody screamed at her. So she leaned in hard. She was the kid who alphabetized her crayons, the teen who refereed her parents’ cage matches, the adult who let her boss treat her like a sentient stapler. People loved Clara. Saintly Clara. Snooze-fest Clara. Inside, though, she was a pressure cooker of snark, one “sure thing” away from going full supervillain.

College was supposed to be her jailbreak. She bolted to a podunk school five states away, studying literature and fantasizing about novels that’d make readers sob and Venmo her their life savings. But the Footwipe followed like a creepy uncle at a reunion. Clara joined a knitting club she loathed, dated a dude who thought “feminism” was a type of fish, and worked extra shifts at the campus diner to fund her roommate’s “emergency” vape habit. The mask was her bunker, shielding her from drama or disappointment. But it also shrink-wrapped her soul.

Now, at thirty-two, Clara was back in her hometown, shelving books for a boss who’d sell her kidneys for a Starbucks gift card. Her apartment was a museum of despair—a demonic faucet, Brontë’s judgy glares, and a novel she hadn’t written because perfectionism had her in a chokehold. Her days were a hamster wheel of “yes, sir” and “I’ll handle it,” her nights spent doom-scrolling or staring at blank pages while Brontë plotted her murder. The Human Footwipe was CEO of Clara Inc., and she was ready to stage a hostile takeover.

This job has been a crash course in self-destruction. I’ve said yes to every dumb request, from dog-sitting my neighbor’s incontinent chihuahua to hosting my aunt’s “gluten-free vision board” party. I’ve let my mom guilt me into holidays that feel like war crimes. I’ve dated guys who think I’m a free therapist with a side of laundry service. My skill set includes: biting my tongue until it’s jerky, apologizing for existing, and smiling so hard my face sues me for malpractice. I’m done. Done being the human equivalent of a paper towel—handy until you’re covered in someone else’s mess.

I’m resigning from the idea that I’m here to make everyone’s life a breezy rom-com while mine’s a low-budget horror flick. I’m firing the Clara who slinks through the world like she’s allergic to opinions. I’m done with the script that says I’m the designated grown-up while you act like a toddler with a credit card.

Clara’s coffee was colder than her ex’s heart, but she was vibrating like she’d mainlined a Monster Energy. Writing this felt like hot-wiring her spine. The breaking point came last week when her boss, a woman with the charm of a soggy sock, asked her to cover a Sunday shift—her first day off since dinosaurs roamed. Clara said yes, then spent the night sobbing in her shower while Brontë stared like, I’m calling animal control on you. That was it. The Footwipe had to die.

She pictured her resignation in glorious Technicolor. Telling her boss, “Take your shift and shove it where the sun don’t shine.” Calling her mom: “I’m out for Easter unless you stop asking why I’m not a lawyer.” Writing her novel, typos and plot holes galore, and slapping a cover on it that screams, “Read this or fight me!” She’d dye her hair neon green, get a tattoo of Brontë flipping the bird, and say “no” so often it’d be her catchphrase. She laughed so hard she snorted, making Deb whip around like Clara was smuggling contraband.

This isn’t a polite exit. I’m not begging for a gold star or a cookie for my service. I’m gone. The new Clara is crashing the party, and she’s a glitter-bombed gremlin with a vendetta. She’s writing stories that’ll make your grandma clutch her rosary, saying no to your “quick favor” like it’s an Olympic sport, and maybe starting a riot over the last chicken nugget. She’s not here to iron your life’s wrinkles—she’s here to set mine on fire, in a good way.

To my family, friends, and that coworker who keeps “borrowing” my stapler: strap in. The Human Footwipe is toast, and the new Clara doesn’t do exchanges. If you need me, I’ll be living my best chaos, probably with a margarita and a playlist called “Screw It.” Complaints? Stuff ‘em in a sock and mail ‘em to Narnia.

Clara tore out the pages, folded them into a wonky origami pterodactyl, and shoved it in her bag. She flung a crumpled ten at the table for Deb and swaggered outside. The neon sign buzzed like it was hyping her up. Clara grinned, throwing her head back to high-five the stars. She didn’t know if she’d write that novel, move to Bali, or tell her mom to eat her own casseroles. But she was done being a doormat. She was ready to be a walking disaster, and it was gonna be epic.

As she strutted home, the Human Footwipe disintegrated like a vampire in sunlight. The new Clara was already choreographing her victory dance, complete with explosions and a killer bass drop.