Chin Up?

Maybe I spoke too soon. My future - at this company, in life - seems in jeopardy through no fault of any one person. Least of all mine. I feel cheated and disappointed. I have been lucky, lazy and insincere at school and work my entire life. I have always gotten grades, jobs and raises that I don't deserve and I have been the first to acknowledge that. But this was different. I was different. I gave a shit. I put in long hours and I put the job first. My social life dwindled to a night out a week but I didn't care. I was happy, I put aside worries about relationships and family and I lost myself while at work. And now this.

To be told that there is nothing that can be done to salvage the situation, despite every single thing I've done for this firm, to be told that I'd have to go back to the 'other' division - the glamorous yet soul-crushing, self-esteem breaking division that chewed me up and spat me out within two months - that, my friends, sucks balls.

Mondays are never my good days, and today is especially bad. I have no motivation, no desire, no steam. Add to that the all-familiar sense of despair that comes from marking yet another big-family-occasion date without him. The confusing mix of emotions that I no longer have the strength to untangle leave me drained. Suffice to say I'm barely holding up. How do people cheer themselves up, again?

The Downside

I'm officially a private equity whore. Due diligence gets me all excited and I can now talk on and on about fund positioning and deal structuring. I enjoy discussing market caps and book values over drinks after work. I iron pencil skirts every morning and am engulfed in a sea of black, sharp clothing. I am actually in a position to fuck things up majorly on a scale that mummy and daddy can't bail me out even if they wanted to. I have perfected the act of yelling at lawyers, auditors and advisors without ever raising my voice. I can now compose seamless, beautiful emails that even the most scrutinous of hard-assed bankers can't question. I can multi-task like Superman on speed and I can as of today, run high-level meetings without stuttering.

And I'm fucking loving it.

Except, the other day, I was making plans with a friend and said, "I'm not sure, I may have some prior engagement. In any case, I should know by tomorrow - I'll text you accordingly."

Five More Days

We got back home late on Sunday night after a dumpling dinner at Chinatown followed by ridiculously strong drinks at a gay bar. At the bar we debated whether or not "Blacula" was a figment of the jew's over-worked imagination - I said it sounded like a porn-star's name - and he amazed us all by using the word "blaxploitation" correctly. We then went on to call each other names like blitch and blimbo.

Once home, I procrastinated till sleepy-time, and then made the jew promise to wake me up at 8 am because it was important that I get to work by nine and by important I don't mean people are going to get mad important, I mean I'm going to get fired important. Having impressed this upon the jew, I proceeded to snuggle in deep - satisfied and completely sure that I would wake up at 8 am.

Come 8 am, both our alarms went off. I switched mine off out of habit - I can do it now without even actually waking up - and he started poking me, reminding me of my words from the night before, threatening to pull the duvet off at which I made horrified sounds. All in vain. He kept nagging, I kept sleeping and he kept up the "You made me promise to wake you up" until I started weeping. I am so fucking lazy that I will howl and rage at the prospect of waking up, but even when required to wake up, will try my best to keep my half of the duvet. Crying works most of the time, but there was no winning today.

Post hysterics, he let me snooze for exactly two minutes before pulling the duvet off, and kicking me out. I dressed up, put make up on, transferred stuff from weekend bag to work bag. And he slept.

I hate Mondays.

The Last Year

I have forgotten how to write. I have been staring at this page all morning, typing entire paragraphs out and deleting them, word by word. I have become dull. And the only thing I can talk of with any excitement these days is my new Cartier watch. Or my new Kate Spade bag. Or maybe the new Tiffany bangle. I am now defined by beautiful, expensive, meaningless things. I no longer have any original insights on life, love or even panty hose. But I will tell you exactly where the 80% off Club 21 sale is. And I will tell you to invest in those Marni trousers because the long silhouette will make you look leaner. It's all about good tailoring, isn't it?

I disgust myself these days, when I realize that the majority of my time is spent poring over online look-books to see if I can pull harem pants off. Or when I read NYMag almost religiously, waiting anxiously for the Gossip Girl weekly breakdown and the Sex Diaries. I hate that in the last ten months, I've read maybe 10 books of which at least three were flippant diatribes on 'urban relationships' and 'perfect men'. At lunch, my colleague and I go to Miu Miu and Chanel and claim we're spying on competitors, when we're just lusting after over-priced, impractical shoes.

I spend my evenings watching repeats of Family Guy or Summer Heights High - the cultural highlights of my day - and I go to bed with a boyfriend of over a year (you remember the jew), who I nag and pester and demand affection from. I do absolutely nothing that I'm not comfortable doing, I do absolutely nothing that makes me feel good about myself. I am lazy, unproductive and shallow. I have very few hobbies - writing and reading have been on hold for reasons I don't understand anymore - and I have absolutely no desire to meet anyone. I don't even listen to music anymore, I keep playing the same three albums over and over again until I actually feel nauseous. I earn way more than I deserve seeing my age and (in)experience, and I spend all my money on lattes and madras-check dresses before the 25th of each month. I am, in a nutshell, bored.

I need a good shaking, I need a new crowd, I need a new city, I need dialogue... I now need a cigarette. Good to be back, though, good to be back.

Different Times

Welcome back, and welcome me back. I have missed this webpage. And you. But we'll get past this awkward re-introduction, we'll soon forget about this nine-month sabbatical from the one thing that makes me happy. Same blog, same url, same scout - but different times, of course.

Old habits die hard. I still smoke, if you were wondering. Still getting drunk as well.