The cursor blinks. It’s the only thing moving in the document, a tiny, rhythmic pulse of digital judgment. The box is titled ‘Key Accomplishments: Q1,’ and my mind is a perfect, serene blank. I know for a fact I was employed in January, February, and March. I have the pay stubs to prove it. But did I accomplish anything? The blinking cursor suggests not.

I do what we all do. I open my ‘Sent’ folder, a desperate archaeological dig into my own recent past. I scroll. And scroll. February 21st… I forwarded a logistics memo. Did that accomplish something? It feels unlikely. March 11th… I replied-all with ‘Thanks!’ to a team-wide announcement. Definitely not a key accomplishment. The first 11 weeks of the year have vanished, subsumed into a fog of meetings that could have been emails and emails that could have been deleted.

“

The annual performance review isn’t a tool for honest reflection. It’s a ghost story we tell ourselves once a year, where the ghosts are our own forgotten achievements.

The Flaw: Recency Bias

The entire process is built on a fundamental flaw in human cognition: recency bias. Our brains are wired to give more weight to recent events. It’s an efficient, if lazy, survival mechanism. But when applied to evaluating a year’s worth of professional contribution, it becomes an instrument of accidental cruelty and systemic foolishness. The project that wrapped up last Tuesday, the one with all the

The Island of Almost-Things

My friend Sarah calls this corner ‘The Island of Almost-Things.’ It’s a graveyard of good deals. The desk, which cost a grand total of $149, promised ergonomic freedom but delivered only precariousness. Next to it sits a coffee maker, a sleek black-and-chrome affair that now produces a tepid, brown-ish water while leaking a clean, clear puddle from its base. It worked perfectly for 99 days. The warranty was for 90. Of course it was.

We are drowning. Not in water, but in the relentless tide of things built to be replaced. We fill our homes with objects whose primary design feature is a meticulously calculated expiration date. This isn’t a bug; it’s the core function. The toaster with the one element that dies just after the return window closes.