The Performance Review

God is middle management. A man flagged for “excessive freestyling” must defend his life choices to a divine supervisor, a sentient spreadsheet, and HR from Hell. It’s his quarterly performance review—and he forgot there’d be charts.

The Performance Review
Photo by Jason Goodman / Unsplash

He didn’t apply for the meeting. It just appeared on his calendar:
Quarterly Review – Life ID #84627-B
Location: Conference Room 7 (Metaphysical South)

The Zoom link didn’t work. The room did.

He opened the door to find beige walls, flickering LED panels, and a carafe of lukewarm coffee. Four nameplates waited at the table:

  • GOD (MANAGER) – middle-aged, tired, holding a clipboard
  • CHRONOS (TIMEKEEPING) – silent, constantly checking a watch
  • U (SUBJECT) – his own seat, still warm
  • HR (HELL RESOURCES) – a cheerful woman with a red pen and a thermos labeled “Regret Juice”

“Let’s begin,” God said without looking up.

“Sure,” said the man, because what else does one say to a performance review conducted by the divine.

Chronos dinged a small triangle-shaped bell. The lights dimmed slightly.

God cleared his throat. “You’ve logged 3,402 conscious days since activation. That’s below average, but not disqualifying. Let’s talk output.”

The clipboard flipped itself open.

“Quarter one: strong start. Childhood wonder, early empathy, distinct laugh. Then... a pivot. You began... what’s the term, Brenda?”

HR beamed. “Freestyling.”

“Yes. Freestyling. We flagged that. You dropped out of the narrative arc. Avoided plot progression. Flirted with three separate redemption moments and committed to none.”

“I didn’t know there was a plot,” the man said.

God gave a slow blink. “Everyone says that.”

Brenda leaned in. “You were this close to an inspiring comeback at 24. We even cued the music. You bought a planner, took a walk, said something vague but promising in a journal. Then—nothing. You started ironically watching motivational videos and re-downloading dating apps at 2 a.m.”

“I was exploring.”

Chronos chuckled without smiling.

God tapped a line on the clipboard. “You keep adding side characters with no resolution. Do you remember... Jared?”

“Vaguely.”

“You shouldn’t. He was built for a three-episode arc. You dragged him through seven years of podcast recommendations and lunch invites.”

“I liked him!”

“He was a narrative placeholder!” God snapped. “You were supposed to replace him with mentor conflict!”

Brenda nodded. “You also self-narrated a lot.”

The man frowned. “Is that... bad?”

“Not always,” she said. “But you kept doing it aloud. During arguments. People thought you were buffering.”

God slid a manila folder across the table. Inside: his childhood diary, annotated with red ink.

Chronos held up a pie chart titled ‘Utilization of Foreshadowing’ with 86% labeled ‘Ignored.’

The man looked down. “Can I... fix it?”

God sighed. “We’re in Q4. There are two options. One: redemption arc. You’ll need a montage, a health scare, some earnest eye contact. But it’s possible.”

“Option two?”

“A lateral transfer. You move genres. We’re short on noir antiheroes and reality TV contestants. Or we can demote you to a guy who gives cryptic advice at bus stops.”

“Do I get to choose?”

Brenda grinned. “You get to feel like you did.”

Chronos rang the triangle bell again. The lights came up.

God stood. “Final note: stop worrying about being the main character. You were never written as one. That role is taken.”

“By who?”

God paused at the door. “Karen, from accounting. She leaned into the rising action.”

He left.

The man looked down at the folder.

A sticky note was attached.
“Reminder: Next review in 90 days. Do not attempt to achieve closure outside scheduled cycles.”