Last Post in London

Well, here we are: the last night in London. Fuck, it came quick, but that's what everyone (including me) said would happen. I guess I never realized how quickly it would come. Those last two sentences are just absolutely rife with sexual undertones...or is that just me?

One of the most common question I've been asked in the last few days is some variant of the following: are you sad? Answer: yes and no. Today was my last day of work at UBS for what I can only assume is forever. I have no prospect of continuing my employment for UBS in the States in the next few days/weeks/months, so the only logical conclusion is this chapter is closed and will stay closed. Sad? Not really. There are people I have met in the past year I will certainly miss, but those who matter won't really be going away; it'll just be months of potential planning to meet up which will eventually fall through and odds are I won't see a single one of them again. Always the optimist, I know. I do have some faith in a select few, though.

So, no...I'm not sad. I'm not really sure how to express what's going on right now, honestly. I'm at a loss for words. I knew this would happen eventually if I talked or wrote enough. At this point, it doesn't seem real. I know I'm leaving tomorrow and I know I'm going to have to say goodbye to some people who have become invaluable in my life. I also know I don't know how I'm going to react. The only solace is I know it has to happen and I can't do a thing to stop it. Every person I've grown close to over the past few weeks/months/year are from different parts of the world. Most are in the US which will make a meet potentially possible, but we're all going to be beyond busy the next few weeks/months and once we get around to it, it'll just be a “well...I guess I could, but why put in that much effort? Seems like a lot of work.” As with everything, time will tell.

Anyway, enough of that bullshit and more of the cynicism you come to expect from this page. Last night, I was at an event cleverly titled “leaving drinks” for a friend of mine. What happens at this event, you may ask? Well, drinks are clearly involved. The reason for the occasion? They're leaving! I know...I was stuck on that one for a while, too. It just so happened that this event was host to just about every person I have come to meet and loathe for the last fifty-ish weeks or longer. There are some I haven't seen or spoken to in months and there are others who I was friendly with previously where that friendliness does not exist anymore. I'm torn up about it, I swear. However, whenever there can be drinking and awkwardness involved...well, fuckin' eh, count me in.

I can sum this night up in just a few sentences: imagine being at a house party complete with three keg stations. In attendance are about two hundred people; one hundred and seventy of which you can't stand while the other thirty are absolutely shit-hammered while you're sober and trying to get to their level. Oh, and two keg stations just dried up.

Following the story so far? Ok, so here's what happens: you end up getting stuck in line with about a fucking million people you would rather have rusty, dirty knives shoved up your pee-hole than speak to, let alone be near in general. Sober. Fun, right? Here's what you can expect from this scenario: fake interactions with those you hate, some getting pissed you're ignoring them even though you've spoken maybe two words to them in your entire life, and fantastic over-the-top reconciliations from those you used to be friends with based on their having new people around them so they can save face and not look like a fuck/dick/cunt/bitch. Where are the people you actually care about, want to hang out with, talk to and see? Nowhere to be found...tumbleweeds. Get me the fuck out of here. Now.

Short story long: I left early after saying my goodbyes to the people I came to see. Shocking, I know...

So it's my last night...I'm done packing...all the flatmates are out of the house...and I'm sitting here contemplating the previous year in this fucked up thing we call life. Seems fitting, I think. This will be my last post written in London...next time you hear from me will be when I'm on US soil for the first time since April. I've said it before and I'll say it again...life's a fucked up ride. Hold tight, ride it the best you can (there's those goddamn sexual undertones again!) and see where you end up.

It's been a great year and for those who have stuck with me for this long, for those who have read occasionally, and for those of you who might be new readers, you have no idea how much I appreciate it. Here's to the next one.

Get Over Yourself Already

It's been a while...too long, in fact. I've had a fuck of a day thus far, but you know what? Let's play “story time” because I have one to tell and you're bored enough to read it.

Fair warning: I've had a few drinks (of the alcohol nature – gasp!) and this might come across as a little more aggressive than I intend...but for those of you who have read before, it really shouldn't be anything new. So, without any further ado, the story of the night:

I went out for drinks with some co-workers tonight because a fairly important person was in London doing some business that has something vaguely related to a process I perform on a daily basis. Fine by me, I'm all about free drinks and making an ass out of myself after ingesting a few adult beverages. Prior to embarking on this adventurous evening, I was slightly nervous because this person could potentially have some kind of impact on my career in the future since he works in New York and has a little pull in who gets hired and who does not. I was naively thinking since I am one of five or six people in the entire world who know how to do this process, this person might have some interest in keeping my services at the company I currently work. It became extremely obvious early in the evening this would not be the case because there are very few positions available in the US, especially in my given area of “expertise.”

So, here we are a few drinks into the night (compliments of mystery NY man, thankyouverymuch) and I have yet to eat a single morsel of real food since lunch and the stories are flowing like a freshly discovered period. The people in attendance are Mystery NY man, two co-workers, and my boss's boss. At some point, Mystery NY man tells a story about his recent adventures on the tube (London's underground subway system for the slow people in the crowd) and how he was sweating balls carrying his unnecessary luggage around. Eventually, a random stranger (is there any other kind?) offered him a seat as he can be considered an older gent and might require a rest as to avoid a coronary. This prompts me to recall a story where something similar happened a few months prior involving an older (but not really that older) man when I was cursing myself for riding the tube back from Heathrow (fucking again) after depositing yet another visitor in the safe hands of Overpriced Airline.

I begin my story by saying I'm riding the tube back from Heathrow and some random woman notices a middle-aged man who might look like he's having a little trouble standing. Upon noticing middle-aged man, she turns to me (earphones in and turned up to near ear-bleeding status and reading a book) and tells me I should give up my seat because he looks like he might need it. As I'm recounting my story, I reference my boss saying “this guy was young, probably middle-aged like you” and didn't seem like he needed any charity in me giving up my seat. Not for nothing, but if this woman was so concerned about this guy sitting down, why not give up your own damn seat, you selfish bitch? End of story...except not really. Apparently “middle-aged” isn't a term thrown around lightly as my boss seemed fairly disturbed and potentially offended by the categorization.

As far as I know, my boss is late 30s and has a few fuck trophies (kids) as well. Let me ask you, dear reader...what would you consider “middle-aged?” From what I can tell, middle-aged is mid to late thiries to mid to late forties. Am I wrong? Please tell me...I beg you...I implore you...if I'm wrong – do tell. Give me a viable definition that tells me I'm incorrect in my assessment and I will walk into work tomorrow (or more likely Monday) and sincerely apologize to my boss for calling him such a dirty word.

As you can well imagine, the rest of the evening was spent telling stories with the preface of “Well, since I'm middle-aged” and “Oh, I can't do that anymore since I'm middle-aged.” Fuck. You. Get over yourself already. People get old...you're not special. Just because you're clinging onto your last semblance of hope of being considered “young” does not mean you are. Why not throw on some Dickies and a Quicksilver shirty with a flat-billed fifty-nine fifty Dodgers hat while you're at it? When I'm 40 and employing little shitheads such as myself and buying them drinks since they can't afford it themselves, I expect to be called old because I fucking am.

Do me a favor, readers (all two of you), if I ever lose what small sense of humor I have, especially if it involves me being old as fuck all, just kill me. Take a shotgun and blast me in the face. You'd be doing everyone a favor and you have my personal guarantee I will not press charges. Because when we lose our funny, we might as well be dead anyway...

I'll probably regret posting this tomorrow (whatever, at the end of the day, we're all attention whores anyway) but fuck it...it's written and I haven't posted anything in a while. Plus my last 15 posts have been depressing as shit anyway, so here's a little light hearted post to let you know your life is and always will be better than mine.

Questions? Comments? You know what to do...