I’ve always held the belief that when you’re at work, you should actually *work*—and not just by warming a seat while watching the clock, but by focusing on results.

With this mindset, I landed my first real job. I worked myself to the bone there; by the time I got home, I barely had enough energy left to sit in front of my monitor for an hour or two before bed, just staring blankly with my mouth open. My work schedule was mapped out in such minute detail that I even allotted myself specific time slots just to go pee. Naturally, an eight-hour workday was of absolutely no interest to anyone there. Management would only start acting friendly toward you if you were putting in twelve-hour shifts. If you stuck to eight hours, people—including your own colleagues—would stop even saying hello to you. The result? After I had meticulously built and polished the entire production process until it gleamed, and my contract subsequently expired, they unceremoniously booted me out the door without so much as a wave goodbye.

And so, I moved on to my second job. I’m a stubborn guy; I don’t abandon my convictions easily, and I’m not particularly cunning. In this new role, my supervisor quickly began offloading his own duties onto me—and I was more than eager to take them on. Especially since I considered his own working methods to be inefficient. After all, I felt I needed to prove myself and show what I was capable of. By the end, he was doing nothing but creating a *semblance* of frenetic activity while whining constantly about how incredibly busy he was. Eventually, my supervisor simply got fed up and bailed.

When I asked if I would be promoted to fill his position, upper management informed me that while I would indeed be inheriting his responsibilities, I was still «too young» for the actual title. Since, in principle, nothing else had really changed—aside from the fact that I no longer needed to get my decisions approved by anyone else—I simply carried on. Productivity began to climb, and six months later, management tossed me a bone in the form of a pay raise. This was presented as an act of unprecedented generosity—and, naturally, I was expected to jump up and down, squealing with delight. Naturally, management demanded that I boost productivity in return—even though, at that time, they didn't have anything resembling actual performance metrics to begin with. Oh well—we’re all about results, right? Some time later, a promising vacancy opened up; when I expressed interest, my bosses once again told me that I was too young. Instead of me, they installed an energetic tyrant—a guy whose excessive busywork and total lack of understanding of the job only served to get in his subordinates' way.

That was the moment I finally realized the truth: a workhorse will never become the chairman. The people who get promoted are the ones who know how to whisper the right things into management's ears at just the right time. It’s better to *simulate* intense activity while actually chilling out than to work your fingers to the bone. It’s better to play the fool at the opportune moment than to act like a *real* fool and saddle yourself with a mountain of obligations for absolutely no reason. So, naturally, I left for a new job. Now I just sit here, keep a low profile, do the bare minimum, and everything is just fine. Work isn't going to run away from you—and your paycheck certainly doesn't grow just because you work harder.

By the way, back at my old job, they ended up having to split my former duties among three and a half people—and their performance metrics are *still* in decline. So tell me: why bust your ass at a salaried job when you can *not* bust your ass and still end up with the exact same outcome?

Why waste your energy chasing career advancement when that advancement isn't guaranteed by the results of your labor, but rather by sycophancy and hypocrisy?

Why take on a 50% increase in workload for a mere 10% bump in pay, accompanied only by fairy tales about «future» career growth? Young people today understand that we only get one life—and they have no desire to trade it away for a carrot dangling just out of reach.

They could pay a decent salary tomorrow, but they choose not to. That's the unpleasant truth.

Every day we wake up and work for someone else's dream. Someone's dreams are built by our time, sweat, health, and sanity. And others, those at the top of the pyramid, are buying themselves another yacht, a new house, and dozens of apartments in new buildings. And at the same time, we are told to enjoy a lower-than-average salary, which is barely enough to last until the fifteenth of the month.

In the mid-1980s, I worked for a company that financial publications wrote about with delight: revenue growth, margin growth. But inside the company, the office culture was like a steam boiler on the verge of exploding. Employees had their bonuses drastically cut in one quarter, even though our own product exceeded all stated goals.

I asked my boss why. He just grinned and said, «First, the shareholders. Always.» I didn't even know what to say to him. It wasn't about merit. Not about the work done. It was about dividends, the share price, and payments to people who had done nothing for the company other than own a portion of its shares.

I remember staying late one night, too tired to go home. I was looking at a presentation slide that explained why our department won't get a pay raise this year. The slide referred to labor as the «cost center.» There was no doubt in those words. There was a red column on the chart.

The value of my entire existence has been reduced to costs that need to be cut. I felt like a comma that they were trying to erase or at least round up.

They don't see people. They see the roles.

My friend worked for a multinational company for a minimum wage. He tried his best, always arrived on time, and was friendly. At some point, he was fired — not for bad work, not for misconduct, but simply because someone at the top decided: you can find the same employee, but cheaper, in a cheaper city. And that's how it became just a line in the quarterly earnings report.

And then I realized: these companies don't care about people. Positions are important to them. Waiter. The clerk. Analyst. Developer. They look at how much profit this position brings to the company, and they don't care at all about how much a person needs to live. It's not personal. It's systemic.

They also sell you an entirely fictional idea: if you want to earn more, become more valuable. Learn new skills. Try harder… That's a lie! If work itself is necessary for society, does this mean that someone needs such positions? And if these positions are necessary, why are we, those who occupy them, considered expendable?

The game was unfair even before we got into it.

When I was young, in the late 80s and early 90s, I believed in capitalism. In a rational way. The one that says: «You'll get what you deserve.» You know, the one that says that good work gets a good reward.

This whole version of the system is a lie that most of us prefer to believe because the truth is too unpleasant. The real game is not about effort or ethics. It's about shares.

Shareholders. They are the ghosts in the meeting room. They don't register at the entrance, they don't manage people. But everything in the company revolves around their desires.

I remember reading the old Dodge vs. Ford case, where Ford was sued by its own shareholders for wanting to pay workers more. That was a hundred years ago. And we are still living in the same cycle.

Because it doesn't matter if it's legal or not, shareholder pressure is always there. It's just that now it's hiding behind metrics and KPIs.

Some say that the huge salaries of «executives» are a false target of criticism. Okay, maybe firing one «supervisor» and dividing his salary among all of them won't solve anything mathematically.

But what is the message if one person earns more in a day than others in a whole year?

This is a signal: it's not that we can't, we just don't want to. This is the signal: you're replaceable, even if your hard work keeps the company afloat.

It's not about logic. It's about how much you're willing to put up with.

More and more often I hear conversations in which the question is posed not like this: «What will be fair?», but like this: «What else can we get away with?»

Top managers don't ask, «What's your rent bill, how much does your child's treatment cost?» They look at market rates and even manage to complain about them, and then they return to talking about competition. They only care about one thing: «Will we still be able to fill this vacancy if we reduce the pay by 10%?»

If the answer is yes, you're done.

And then they wonder why young people don't have loyalty to companies. Why would they even be?

There is no reason to be loyal to a system that encourages the exploitation of people for the sake of shareholders. If the system rewards those who hold shares rather than those who hold everything else, loyalty becomes meaningless.

One of the worst conversations in my life was with a top manager who told me, «If people are willing to work for less, why pay more?»

I can't describe how many nights I couldn't sleep thinking about it. «People are willing to work for less»?

What does it even mean if the only options are starvation and exploitation?

They say the market determines your value. I say: the market has a problem with conscience.

When your entire value depends on how desperate someone else is, it's not a fair system.

This is a casino. And the institution always wins in it.

They confuse exploitation with strategy.

We can no longer pretend that this is sustainable. A society in which profit is the only god is slowly devouring itself.

And maybe I'm naive, but I believe it could be better. I believe that employees should be considered people, not variables. Not only because it's the right thing to do, but because it's reasonable.

People who are well paid are loyal. They are motivated. They are creative. This is not a mercy. It's just common sense.

But the «employers» have gone too far in trying to squeeze the last out of people and then throw them away. This is called efficiency. This is called growth.

But in fact, it's just cowardice disguised as leadership. These are billionaires hiding behind accounting records while the rest of us are trying to scrape together rent.

I don't need a utopian world. I just want a world where doing work doesn't mean fighting for survival. A world in which you are not ashamed of your salary.

A world where you don't have to prove your humanity every time you walk into an office.

Because the minimum should be at least enough for life!!!