What the actual fuck is this? After 15 years of pouring my soul into this place, countless sleepless nights analyzing flight data, ensuring missions don’t turn into multimillion-dollar fireworks displays, this is the thanks I get? Laid off like I’m some disposable intern who spilled coffee on a server.

NASA, the bastion of human innovation, the place where I thought dedication meant something. Guess not. I suppose all those weekends in mission control, running simulations, triple-checking every goddamn line of code—all meaningless. But hey, let’s make way for some shiny new contractors who wouldn’t know a telemetry anomaly if it slapped them in the face.

“Restructuring.” That’s the word you used. Fancy corporate jargon for screwing over the people who built this agency’s backbone. Maybe instead of axing the folks who actually know what they’re doing, you could’ve started with the ones upstairs who couldn’t calculate an orbit with a TI-83.

I’ve spent my entire career ensuring astronauts returned home safely, that satellites delivered the data you all brag about. But I’m just a line on a budget now. Fine. Screw it. Maybe I’ll start a consultancy and charge double for the same work I did here. Or better yet, I’ll spill every single piece of bureaucratic incompetence I’ve witnessed. Believe me, I have stories.

Oh, and one last thing: next time your precious billion-dollar rocket has an unexpected trajectory shift, don’t come crying to the laid-off guy who warned you about the damn algorithm in the first place.