Beeee Prus

Too Good for Words

The Bitter Investment Banker Email

8:50 Oh god. Glaring error on page 17 of the pitch book. Forgot to convert Canadian dollars into U.S. classic analyst f*ck-up. I ve also got to pee. Pee real bad. Client has his eyes half-closed; he s not even paying attention. The Sycophant, my VP, sits across from me. Client says something. The Sycophant responds, Oh yes, that s spot on, you really hammered that point across perfectly. Client says something else. The Sycophant says, That s brilliant, a truly remarkable observation. Even Client cringes. Page 16 of the book. One page away from the Client s eyes snapping open, suddenly acutely aware of things, a loud and brusque, What the hell is this The Sycophant reduced to a weeping mess, groveling at his feet. At least it might distract me from my bladder.

2:30 Lunch with the Defeated One. We have this new policy of going outside for two, at most three minutes, to enjoy the spring weather before bringing the same congealed General Tao chicken up to our desks. A young couple clean and preppy enough to be in one of those Gap commercials, the annoying one where everybody s snapping their fingers, stroll by grinning away like Cheshire cats. It s frickin Tuesday, the Defeated One grimaces. He s boring a pencil into his wrist. We re not even alive, the Defeated One mutters. I ve heard this rant before; indeed, have heard a daily variant of this rant since we started working together: I could be dead and nobody would give a damn, one of those old pricks who passes off in his trailer and the rotting corpse isn t found for months afterward. Or: I am nothing more than an accumulation of spreadsheets. Really, my neurons are nothing more than linked cells. Shit, I feel a circular reference coming on. It s one of those jokes that only an investment banker could appreciate but still it s not very funny. Chuckle as a reflex. He s managed to draw blood with the pencil. Aren t you worried about lead poisoning If I should be so lucky. Besides, it s not lead, it s graphite. What about graphite poisoning Let s go back inside. The Defeated One stares at the receding backs of the Gap-commercial-clean couple, nods solemnly, and follows me to the elevators.

5:15 Log on to a site storing novels that are too old for copyright restrictions to apply. They re all in plain text without graphics so the screen is perfectly inconspicuous. Read the first chapter of Siddhartha. Follow your destiny, Siddhartha learns, go scavenge around a forest in India for Enlightenment! I m going to do it. I really am. Not the India part, that s too far away, but I m going to shut down my computer, put the new Air CD in my pocket, give a half-salute to the Star and the Defeated One, push the elevator button for the last time, that little screen teaching me a word I m never going to use, step out into the cool breeze and smile up at the sky. I see the Sycophant s reflection in my monitor and close the browser. What s the number Uhm, six. It s supposed to seven. Yes, I guess so. Why isn t it seven I don t know. Keep on at it until its seven. Sure thing. Note to self: no more reading Siddhartha at the office.

9:30 Argue with the Defeated One over the music selection. His taste was somehow stunted after junior high. He s still listening to Phish and the Tragically Hip and all those other bands that everybody else makes fun of in a bittersweet nostalgic way because though they ve officially entered the realm of the has-been, it was still the music that rocked our formative adolescent years, the soundtrack to that first mushroom trip in the bar that served liquor to well developed fourteen year olds. I put on Broken Social Scene. He s boring a pencil into his wrist. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The Defeated One writhes on the floor, pulling at his receding hairline.

In the words of Lenin… must, crush, capitalism.

A little old for imaginary friends

I woke up one day and realized I had created you in my head. 🙁

Hey, what about yellow fever? Heard that’s hot on this campus

Princeton University is racist against me, I mean, non-whites:

Hi Princeton! Remember me? I so good at math and science. Perfect 2400 SAT score. Ring bells?

Just in cases, let me refresh your memories. I the super smart Asian. Princeton the super dumb college, not accept me. I get angry and file a federal civil rights complaint against Princeton for rejecting my application for admission. They rejected me because I’m not blond or blue eyed and my name doesn’t end with Ockefeller IV or Osworth. I try convince my mom and dad to change my name to Jack Bauer (they could keep their own last names if they wanted to), but they told me Jack only graduated from Berkeley. Not my faults. All I get is huffiness from Princeton admission office and even fellow Yalie Jojo M. T. Witts-Piley. The Daily Princetonian no help either. Only make funs of my unfortunate circumstances.

50 Most Loathsome People in America

I think I have a new boyfriend, and he’s the guy who compiled this list:

16. You

Charges: Your whole life has been a pitiful exercise in rote mimicry, a meek subjugation of individuality in exchange for herd approval. Your delusions of “common sense” wisdom stem from an unwillingness to seek information and an inability to critically analyze it. You never hesitate to offer strong opinions on subjects you don’t know a damn thing about. You’re willing to believe anything a guy in a suit says on TV, as long as it doesn’t hint at your culpability in the negligent homicide of your country and planet or otherwise cloud your streak-free conscience. You’re more worried about friction on the “Desperate Housewives” set than the lack of health coverage at your tedious, soul-destroying job. You have no idea what is going on in the world, and you’re fine with that. You are why democracy doesn’t work.

Exhibit A: You’re Time magazine’s person of the year. So was Hitler.

Sentence: More of the same.