Saturday, December 31, 2005

Family Ties

Sometimes I wonder how B and I are related. While he is a self-loathing, pessimistic asshole, I am a narcissistic, pessimistic bitch.

Last post of the year. Hope everyone had a good one.

My New Year's Resolution is to drink more. Make it yours too.

I could definitely write an Unexplained Phenomena - Volume 2 post about those assholes out there who think saying "See you next year!" is both clever and funny, but I'll refrain because it's bad luck to leave the year off on a negative note.

Plus I don't want to alienate the pricks who do it because I know easily 75% of the people I know do.

Too late, huh?



Hitting the Clubs


I do not like going to clubs. Allow me to reiterate more accurately, I HATE going to clubs. The scene is always the same, an entrance fee, a ridiculously loud and crowded meat market where you’ll undoubtedly rub up against hundreds of sweaty people while trying to get just one overpriced skimpy drink, and people screaming small talk into your ears just loud enough for you to not be able to hear it. Of course, once you scream back, “WHAT?” they scream back to you so loudly that your ear drums begin shaking and crying and going into palpitations.

My friend loves going to clubs. I mean, the guy gets angry because I’m never willing to compromise, and go to clubs with him while he’s always willing to go to bars with me. But the thing he has to understand is that a night of clubbing is a very VERY different experience for me, than it is for him.

My friend is an attractive guy, tall, handsome, and generally chicks dig him. I am a short ugly fucker. My only bait is conversation, which usually doesn’t work out for me because I’m a bitter asshole as well. So when we go out to a club, he’ll go back home thinking, “Wow, that was fun, I met so many chicks, got a couple of numbers, a couple of lap dances, got my dick sucked twice, so overall: I’ll give this night a B+.” Meanwhile, in the land of me, I’ll go back home after completely and utterly reinforcing my insecurities because of the fact that I spent the entire night at the bar being ignored more than the coat hanger.

Question: why is it that every time I go to a club, really tall handsome guys stand next to me? Not only does it remind me that I’m a midget, but if a female were to be looking in our direction, she’d very clearly see that I pale in comparison with any average “club guy”. I think those fuckers do it on purpose. But you know what? If I were tall and attractive, I’d probably be the type of asshole who’d do the exact same thing to make myself feel better.

Friday, December 30, 2005

Unexplained Phenomena – Volume 1

The Chronic Shit-Talker

Before I started this blog, I had another public blog hosted by a site that allowed you to subscribe to your friends’ sites and receive regular updates of what they were posting. Almost all of my friends (and mostly people whom I have never met, or spoken to maybe once in my entire life) were subscribed to my site, and usually, I to theirs. This resulted in my postings consisting primarily of mindless, nonsensical ramble about:

a) my dog
b) your dog
c) my undying love for David Wright

All in all, incredibly boring stuff lest I reveal too much to the mindless, shit-talking masses that comprise our great society.

My brother and I decided to create this anonymous site because we knew that we had a lot of opinions to share with the world and doing so anonymously would provide a safe forum where we would be free to say anything about anything without the judgmental eyes of our peers.

In an effort to promote the site, I posted on my old site and invited people to email me if they were interested enough to get the link to the new site. I didn’t think anyone I didn’t know well or who didn’t know that I was a writer or seriously care about what I had to say would actually take the time to write to me but, to my surprise, I actually received a few emails.

One was from a girl I went to high school with who (although we were not close at all), as a fellow writer, I knew genuinely cared about reading another writers’ thoughts. Another was from a guy I knew in college who, as far as I know, is a generally good guy and I wouldn’t have a problem with him reading what I had to say.

Another was from another girl I went to high school with, was acquainted with, but didn’t really know very well. She was also the one person I had actually labeled in my mind “person to never give this link to.”

Let me explain.

If there were ever an award for Most Shit Talked About People You Barely Know, this girl would, without a doubt, win it. Thus, I will henceforth refer to her as the Gobshite, a term I picked up during my stint in Ireland that literally means “shit mouth.” We went to high school together for three years. She was already a good friend of two of my close friends, so we were introduced straightaway, and got along well enough were it not for one small issue. She was literally addicted to talking shit about people. But not just people—people she knew, people she didn’t know, people she met once, people she knew for years and was still good friends with, people who she knew through friends of friends of friends, famous people, everyone. I heard from my friends on several occasions that she had said things about me. Although it upset me that she said things about me under the guise of being a “friend,” what seriously pissed me off was who she was saying all this too. Why would someone talk shit about you to your friends?

It never seriously got to me because as I said before, we were merely acquaintances, and after high school, I never saw her again save for a couple of instances where we bumped into each other, and one time at a mutual friend’s birthday party where I got really drunk and regaled her with some inane bullshit about dating White guys vs. dating Asian guys, traveling, and how delicious beer is, and in turn listened to tidbits about her new relationship. Fine.

One day, my friends and I were all at a café, drinking coffee, chatting, doing the shit you do at a café, when she somehow came up in conversation. One friend, the one I met her through who continues to stay in contact with her mentioned that every time she speaks to her, all Gobshite talks about is, or course, other people.

Who, exactly, does she talk about?”

“Oh, you know, everyone.”

“Does she talk about me?”

“Well, you know, she…just talks about…everyone.”

“So she does talk about me.”

“Well, sort of…”

“Just out of curiosity, what does someone I haven’t seen or spoken to in years have to say about me?”

“I don’t know, she just sort of makes these sweeping generalizations. Like, for instance, ‘don’t you notice how so-and-so always talks about such-and-such?’”

So, why would someone I barely speak to go through the trouble of being one of the few who took the time to email me and request this link? I asked my best friend that same question, and without missing a beat, she summed it up nicely, "Of course she's gonna ask, she feeds on that shit." In all seriousness, this girl is a professional shit-talker. Even with such limited contact in the last four years, she manages to find something to say about me, and everyone for that matter. So, although I no longer take offense to this behavior as it is obviously not personal in any way, I reserve to right to delete her email and not give her the link to this site lest I provide her with more artillery for her verbal attacks.

I have subsequently removed that post from my former blog.

-L, obviously

Thursday, December 29, 2005

Worst Day Ever

Today is probably the worst day of my life. Today, I found out that I am allergic to one of my favorite things - Hydrocodone. Hydrocodone is the generic name for a wonderful drug that is more commonly refered to as Vicodin. Possibly, one of the best legal drugs known to man.

I have never been allergic to anything in my entire life. I've had allergic reactions to things, but seeing as my diet can consist of anything from bread to turpentine over the course of one day, I had no idea what it was, and it never became an issue. Last night, J (the one who was too busy crapping to speak to me on the phone the other day), came over after wisdom tooth surgery. As she was in an immense amount of pain, rather than getting tylenol plus codeine (the useless crap that was prescribed to me when my dentist took a pair of pliers and wrenched one of my wisdom teeth out of my face), she got the good stuff. Something so good, that it was actually prescribed to my friend's ex-boyfriend after he burned his penis on a pan of hot bacon grease, but that's an entirely different post in itself. I discovered the joys of Vicodin because of this incident and his generosity.

Not long after she arrived, I ravaged her stash and helped myself to one of those big giant delicious white pills. At first there was nothing. We sat and watched rereuns of "Friends" season ten (something I missed entirely when I ran off to Ireland for five months last year). J got woozy and passed out with possibly the most ridiculous expression I've ever seen someone have while asleep on her face, a bizarre mix of excruciating pain and pure bliss. I got bored and went online ("Friends" really lost its steam somewhere around season six or seven). It was then I realized that my eyes weren't focusing properly. Words were getting a little jumbled, sentences needed to be read three or four times in order to register, the screen started to pulsate, then waver, my head started to droop, and one word flickered repeatedly through my (semi)consciousness - bed. I stood up just long enough to drag myself and quite literally collapse in a heap onto my bed. I proceeded to drift into the most blissful sleep I have ever had in my life were it not for one thing.

Every single inch of my body itched as if ants were tap-dancing all over my skin. The bottoms of my feet itched for God's sake, and I was in the most confused state I have ever been in in my life. Somewhere between holy-shit-my-brain-is-made-of-pudding-and-I-wonder-how-brain-pudding-would-taste-if-I-were-on-the-moon-with-the-bunny-rabbits joy and I-am-definitely-going-to-peel-all-of-my-skin-off-and-set-it-on-fire-during-some-point-in-the-night misery. I still itch right now, 24 hours after taking that damn pill. I'm like that crackhead on "Chapelle's Show."

A quick search on WebMD confirmed my worst fear - Symptoms of an allergic reaction include: rash, itching, swelling, severe dizziness, trouble breathing.

On the bright side, the website did also say to consult a physician immediately if one of these symptoms occur, and I, well, didn't. So, I guess this is really the best day ever because I didn't die.

Silver lining blah blah blah...


Saturday, December 24, 2005

Merry Christmas

Woke up early today to one of the worst hangovers known to mankind. Red wine + Jack & Coke + Stella + Coors Light = not a good mix. Spent the better part of the day alternating throwing up with watching "The Office" on DVD (the British version, and Frenchie's going away gift).

Typical Christmas Eve really.

B's going to be home soon so we can go shopping for ingredients for tomorrow's Christmagiving dinner. I missed cooking Thanksgiving dinner while in London because the Brits don't celebrate Murder the Injuns Day, so making up for it tomorrow. I cook, without a doubt, the best Thanksgiving dinner known to man. And that's being modest.

Quotable quotes of the day -

"L, you just don't look right when you're not holding a beer in your hand." -My friend S
Maybe I drink a little too much.

"Can I call you back? I'm taking a crap." -The greeting I received when I phoned my friend J just before.

Merry Christmas everyone.


Thursday, December 22, 2005

Last Call

Before I start this entry, I’ll warn B that there is some explicit content involved. Not really, but I do discuss s-e-x (although nothing happened), so if you don’t want to read any hint of your little sister having something that resembles a sex life, you should stop reading now before you throw up all over your cubicle.


London proved to be more difficult to crack in terms to meeting people in both the romantic and platonic sense. Now, I’ve always been pretty confident (actually borderline conceited, although some might say that’s a way of hiding insecurity blah blah blah screw you, I’m hot…most of the time), but after six months in London, my confidence went from a seven to a negative eight. While in New York, most men would find it both refreshing and pretty damn cool that a girl would actually take the initiative to disregard gender roles and strike up flirtatious conversation, many men in London seemed to be extremely suspicious of/off put by/confused by said behavior. I actually asked a guy for his name at a bar, he told me and then he proceeded to stare at me with a blank expression on his face for what felt like five hours. After several similar encounters, I decided to scrap the meeting people thing entirely and focus on trying to murder myself with alcohol and spend as much money that I didn’t have as possible.

I did manage to meet some people through friends of friends and coworkers, none of whom I was interested in in a remotely romantic/sexual sense. But time goes on, standards drop, or to put it bluntly, you get desperate.

I really hate the word desperate, so I’ll just say I got really really horny.

On the Friday of my last weekend there, after a bottle or two of wine, I cracked and propositioned a friend who was not even a back-up, but a last, last resort who had been attempting to get into my pants the entire time I was there. He also regularly got on my nerves, but that was okay because that seems to be a prerequisite for every guy I sleep with. We’ll refer to this guy as “Frenchie” as we was half Chinese, half French, but possessed more of the attributes of the typical sleazy Parisian male than whatever attributes London Chinese men possess.

Did I mention that I was really, really horny?

The timing didn’t work out too well that Friday, so it was basically understood that we’d “seal the deal” or whatever cheesy euphemism men use nowadays for humping (that makes me sound really old, I’m 22 people!), the next night.

Saturday night, I’m in round two of a weekend long experiment to see how many screwdrivers I could drink before doing permanent damage to my brain when Frenchie walks over to me.

“So, am I coming over tonight?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say without making any attempt to hide my disappointment that he is going to be the shag that will define British shags for me.

“So you’re not gonna say you’re tired and change your mind again?”


“I never changed my mind. And if anything, you should be worrying about whether or not you can keep up with me.”

He slithers an arm around my waist, “Tell L to sit up front with Ed on the ride home tonight.”

I pause. Why did he refer to me in the third person?


This definitely wasn’t the first time this had happened. He had been confusing my and my flatmate’s names since the day he met us five months ago. It didn’t bother me much before but after five months it had become a little irritating, and especially now. You’d think the fucker would get it right by now, especially when his dick’s satisfaction hung in the balance.

What did you say?”

It takes him a moment to register. “I meant Cat! I meant Cat! You know what I meant!”

“I know what you meant, asshole, but that’s not what you said.”

He’s stuttering something now, but I can’t hear him because I’m heading back to the bar to continue my screwdriver experiment. I’m on number five now, and nowhere near the level of drunkenness I’m shooting for.

The next night, we all end up at another bar. I’m sitting on a stool nursing a Jack & Coke when he leans in, whispers, “So, can’t we like go to first base or something at least?”

I swivel to look at him with so much force that liquid sloshes out of the edge of my rocks glass.

“Are you serious?”


Wednesday, December 21, 2005


By the way. Any emails about the blog should be directed to There's a link in our profile. Thanks.


The Curse of the Singles

Home, sweet home. Now, the unemployment dance begins (although being CEO of the World is a full-time job, so is unemployment).

B has said he will "light me on fire" if I don't comment on his post, so I'll say that it drew a few chuckles out of me. However, his comment on the social status of singledom is something that I absolutely cannot pass up the chance to argue about. Although I have a lot of other things to write about (Italy, going-away-nookie (good idea, bad idea?), a final ode to London, being back home, the job hunt (better or worse than corporate bitch-dom?), as well as a theory I've been nursing about personality/intelligence levels in relation to attractiveness) I'll have to postpone all that for a bit.

Having just returned from my six-month stint in London, I know how much pressure being single brings. Somewhere during the course of my trip (rather quickly, or immediately, actually) the terms "having fun" and "hooking up" became synonymous (in the sense that one was equivalent to and could not exist without the other). A typical conversation with a friend back home once I had reached the one-month mark:

Friend: How's London?!?!?!
Me: It's okay.
Friend: Just OKAY?!?!?!!?!
Me: It's expensive.
Friend: Have you hooked up with anyone?!?!?!?!
Me: No.
Friend: Why not?!?!?!?!
Me: No one to hook up with.
Friend: What?!?!?! What's wrong with you?!?!?!?!?!

Not only were they very judgmental of me for not sleeping around, they were really excited about it.

But the absolute kicker was when I had this conversation with a friend while discussing hooking-up with people (or my lack thereof):

Me: The guy who works at the internet cafe just asked me out. Should I go out for a drink with him?
Friend: Yeah! Why not?
Me: Well, he's kind of ugly...and old.
Friend: So?
Me: So? I was being sarcastic!
Friend: Oh my God, L. You're so picky. Just go for it!

Well, I don't know when it came to pass that refusing to go on a date with a strange Eastern European man who is both unattractive and too old made me too picky, but that was it. That was when I realized that singledom is viewed as a disease by our society. And if you're single and you're not having casual encounters, then you're the disease. Society puts such a premium on romantic relationships that individuals themselves start to believe it and it's suddenly impossible to be happy and single.

That was when I decided to go on strike. I’m usually very aggressive in the dating game. I have no problem approaching a guy, striking up conversation, asking for his number, (although I’d advise against this in London as British people seem to be terrified by this type of behavior from a female). But after it became a requirement that I hook up or else I would be shunned as a freak who went abroad and didn’t contract VD from any of a number of sexual partners, I decided that I was going to take charge and break the mold and not hook up.

Alright, fine. From my last post and its reference to my sudden weakness in the final stretch of the game, you’d think I bought in. But in my defense, it didn’t happen (more on this later) and that had nothing to do with hooking up in relation to having fun, but goddamnit I’m a human being and I have needs.

So screw you all.

And stay single.


Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Shoot Me

The hardest part about breaking up is having to admit you’re single. The word “single” has become a veritable disease, a form of retardation, an ailment and illness that causes mass paranoia because research has not yet concluded on whether or not it’s a contagion. When someone says they’re single, the first question that comes to mind is, “What’s wrong with him?” Of course, when I say I’m single, the usual response is, “Oh, yeah I figured.” In fact, when I tell people I’m NOT single, I usually end up running away because apparently a lie of that magnitude warrants the stoning and beating of a lifetime.

I hate hitting the clubs, lounges and bars again, it’s fucking depressing. I hate watching all those people smiling, drinking and talking. It’s really frustrating especially because you know it’s waaaay too loud for anyone to be saying anything profound and interesting enough to result in an even remotely meaningful conversation. I always make an attempt to be clever, and some of the wittiest banter I’ve ever conjured up was during club conversation. The result is always the same, a girl screaming into my ear, “What was that?” and me screaming back, “Never mind!”

Last weekend, I was completely shitfaced at yet another one of Manhattan’s ever so obscure lower east side lounges. It totally felt like I was walking into a grade Z transvestite whorehouse in Thailand, not that I’ve ever been to one of those (more than 8 times) and as soon as I got upstairs, the lounge was bumping. It was filled with a very diverse crowd including a handful of attractive chicks who were apparently (God forbid) single. I stumbled over to the bar by myself at one point to order myself another Newcastle, and as I ordered, to my absolute and utter astonishment, some cute chick started talking to me. She looked Irish, a little shorter than me, nice ass and best of all, she was as drunk as a mule. So I did what any drunk guy would do, and I slurred like a champ some sort of nonsensical babble that somehow drew a smile. We were talking for a little while, when through my cloud of intoxication, I noticed that she had a friend standing next to her who looked like she was not having a good time at all. After a while, her friend kept trying to get her to leave with her while glaring at me with angry eyes as if she were Rosie O’ Donnell and I were the pot roast that got away. I felt uncomfortable so I eventually left, but I can’t help but to wonder what was going on in the mind of her friend.

noun : one who engages in the act of blocking cocks; a male who decides to interrupt another male who is already engaged in the mating call ritual with a female; a man-hating female who believes that the cocks of all males is undeserving of her and all her friends unless it is blessed by the pope; a lesbian.

The hardest part about trying to meet chicks at a club is convincing them that you’re not some sort of pervert. It’s tough, especially because most guys who go to clubs actually are perverts. I mean, it’s obvious to everyone that every single guy in a club wants to get laid, so, guys use different modes and methods to make girls forget this prevalent law of clubbing. The best of course is being funny. No girl laughs maniacally at a knock knock joke and thinks to herself immediately afterwards, “this guy is sooo trying to fuck me.” No, they laugh and wait for the next knock knock joke. So, I’ve come to a couple of conclusions over this weekend.

Conclusion #1: Girls are onto us.
Conclusion #2: My ex-girlfriend is an evil soulless bitch.
Conclusion #3: I’m still bitter.
Conclusion #4: The types of girls I meet at clubs are not the types of girls I want to build lasting relationships with.
Conclusion #5: I need a new knock knock joke book.


Oh, and shutup L unless you want the beating of a lifetime.

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Loose Ends

So, several new developments since the last time I wrote. Just got back from a trip to Italy where everything that could have possibly gone wrong, did. Used every ounce of patience and restraint I have not to violently murder my flatmate with a pen. Propositioned a friend of mine for sex just because “I haven’t had sex at all in London, so we might as well fuck before I leave.” More on this later as well as a proper disclaimer so that B doesn’t inadvertently read about my sex life and throw himself from the window of his fourth floor Midtown walkup. Got very drunk with coworkers and ended up kissing one of the few (female) friends I made in England much to the delight of Cheeky Canadian Journalist who proceeded to drool all over the bar. Men are probably the most simple creatures on this planet. Three more days in London. Still haven’t begun to pack. Violently hungover. What’s new…

So, the two or three people who have actually stumbled upon this site have probably noticed that although this is supposed to be a joint blog, B has yet to write a single post. Why is this, you ask? Because he sucks? Because he’s boring? Because he’s a lazy shit? While all of this is true, the real reason is because he recently had his heart sautéed, skewered, deep fried, baked, and sprinkled with powdered shit by a girl whom I will henceforth refer to as Paris. Not because she’s like Paris Hilton (although she is similarly pretty and a complete waste of space and air), but because I recently had a discussion with my coworker about Paris (the city) and she said it’s sort of like that pretty girlfriend your friend has who has no personality. So, B’s been too busy licking his wounds to write anything, although I assure you once he does, you won’t be disappointed. So, the few people who read this site should leave some words of encouragement for him. If we’re lucky, he’ll enlighten us all about that Feng Shui-following, Kabballahyallahdallah-believing, aura-cleansing, wannabe-actress-empty-husk-of-a-human-being and all the horrors that were being in a relationship with her. So, B, get off your lazy ass, stop feeling sorry for yourself, and write something already or I’m changing the password and cuttin’ your ass OUT.

I’ve got a lot to write about, but I’m deep in the throes of my last weekend in London and if all goes well, I’ll be too busy being drunk and hungover to write. However, I promise that once I get back to NYC, once I’m finished catching up on six months of missed television, Korean food, pestering my dog, and fighting off the advances of my ex-boyfriend (who currently has a girlfriend he’s in “love” with) due to my newly discovered conscience (whatever the fuck that is), I’ll be sure to indulge everyone with my British sexploits. Until then, B write something you dumb shit!


Friday, December 09, 2005

The Office Party

Ah, the office party. What can I say about it? Possibly the most awkward social situation known to man cushioned only by an endless supply of free alcohol. The office Christmas party is in a class all its own as far as parties go. Watch “The Office: Christmas Special” and you’ll see the endless combination of things that can go wrong.

The reason office parties have so much potential to be lethal is because you have to see these people every day in a professional environment for an extended period of time. While in retrospect changing your mind on the way to the bar and getting that fifth tequila shot instead of water, then standing on a table and flashing everyone your tits at a Lower East Side dive bar last weekend was a bad idea, who really gives a fuck? You’ll (probably) never see any of those people again.

Not the case in the office party.

So last night was the dreaded company Christmas party. It started off innocent enough. Ice skating at the Tower of London, pointing and laughing at some sad attempts at being graceful, watching my (usually) extremely reserved boss fly around the rink flailing his arms like a madman. Fine. Then it was on to the pub for a wine tasting.

Everything is going well. We nurse our boredom with bottles of Budvar while we wait for everyone to arrive. We go through the three steps to tasting wine, impatiently sniffing our glasses and waiting for the part where we actually drink. Out comes the buffet and we stuff ourselves with the reckless abandon only free food can bring. More wine, only now, we’re ignoring the woman leading us through the tasting and chugging the contents of our glasses – Chianti, Shiraz, Sauvignon Blanc, Merlot, Pinot Grigio – and thrusting our empty glasses towards her – more.

Schizophrenic Editor and Wannabe New Yorker Journalist leave early to go ice skating again and we all breathe a collective sigh of relief. Their endless tittering and nonsensical squeals of delight have given the entire party an edge that no amount of alcohol could dull.

I’m chatting with Migs, the new salesguy, all night. He’s been working for the magazine for about a month now, but I’ve never actually spoken to him until today. Never even bothered to learn his name, really. I have noticed his amazing grey eyes every time I walked past him though. Those eyes, the topic of giggling discussion amongst many of the female journalists on the floor.

He tells me he used to play American Football in high school, quarterback to be precise, he played basketball too and is a big Knicks fan, he spent a year in Australia, he’s part Caribbean, Portuguese, African, and an amalgam of other things.

Somewhere over the course of the night we start talking about being faithful in relationships.

“Well, I’ve cheated before, so I can’t judge anyone else for doing it, but I’m not like that anymore. I wouldn’t cheat on the girl I’m with now.”


I raise my eyebrows and nod. I’m doing a good job hiding my disappointment as far as I know.

It isn’t long before my very drunk and very discreet coworkers start to wag their little tongues about us. I can feel four pairs of raised eyebrows staring at me. I roll my eyes and lean over to him, “You know they’re all talking shit about us. But whatever, you have a girlfriend.”

“And if I didn’t?” He challenges me.

I think for a second, “ask me that when you don’t.” I smile.

“Touché,” he says raising his eyebrows and looks away.

It’s seven o’clock now. We’ve all been drinking since two. People steadily drop out of the game one by one until there are only six of us left. T the New Head of Research, Asshole Salesman, Closet Gay (and married) Salesman, Cheeky Canadian Journalist, Migs, and me. Last woman standing, as per usual.

We make our way to Gordon’s Wine Bar across the road from the Embankment tube station where more wine is consumed courtesy of the drunken generosity of Asshole Salesman.

“I think I’m gonna head home,” Migs announces.

“Me too,” I say, “it’s already much later than I was planning to stay out.” It’s eight thirty.

We stumble drunkenly towards the station, fumble for Oyster Cards, hear the loud thump as the gate swings open, walk towards the stairs, he turns, “which way are you going?”

“That way,” I say pointing to the entrance for westbound tubes. “You?”

“This way.”

“Alright, well, then, I guess, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He takes a beat, “I don’t really wanna go home.”

“Me neither.”

In one quick motion he grabs my hand and we’re leaving the station, out the entry, spit back into the chaos of a busy London street on a Thursday night.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Well, you need the Central Line anyway, don’t you? We’ll just walk towards Holborn and see what’s on the way.”


We start to walk. It amazes me that even after six months here, I still have no idea how to navigate this city. Roads I have walked numerous times all look foreign to me. Yet it’s obvious he knows exactly where he is. The way he walks, there’s a confidence and certainty to it.

He stops suddenly and turns to me. “So, really, if I didn’t have a girlfriend…”

I stop. Think. “I’d probably ask you to come see my place. We are looking for someone to let it after all,” I say with a coy smile. Nothing will happen between us, I know. I can talk as much shit as I want. I can be a tease, stroke my ego for a while, make him squirm a little, make him question. “But you do, and I wouldn’t go there again.”

Again? Why not?”

“Because the last time I got in between two people, karma came back to get me.”

“What happened?”

“It kicked the shit outta me.”

“You know, I’m planning to go to New York for a year. You’ve got to give me your email address so I can get in touch with you.”

“Yeah, definitely...”

We don’t say much the rest of the walk to the station. We don’t stop.

In front of the station, he grabs me and kisses me on my right cheek, then on my left, except he accidentally on purpose misses and plants his lips onto mine. I yank myself away and look down.

I give him a sideways look, “You in love?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding.

“Then don’t fuck that up. That isn’t something you fuck with.” Well this is new...

“You’re right,” he says.

I groan inwardly.

“I’m such a bastard, I can’t believe I tried to kiss you,” he’s looking down, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say brushing it off. “See you tomorrow.”


Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Fucking Job

It's my last week at my godforesaken temp job in London, and endings always make me nostalgic, so I'm taking this opportunity to reflect on the relentless purgatory that is my job.

I'll start with an email I sent today to the new Head of Research (aka my permanent replacement):
Hey T,

Here's the spreadsheet for the [project I'm researching].
Sorry I've been so useless as of late, but give it another month and you'll abhor this job and (most of) the people who work here with the same blind passion that I do!


I guess I haven't fully explained my current situation and some clarification is in order. I’m obsessed with traveling. Not just traveling, but actually living in countries. Alas, the United States is not a commonwealth country and while the price for a U.S. passport on the black market keeps steady at $10,000-$15,000 (!!!), no one wants an American in their country, let alone earning money in their country. I did a semester in Dublin, Ireland, and fell madly in love with that city. Upon graduating, I decided I had to live abroad again. Ireland is even more tightass about giving a Yank a Visa than the U.K., so rather than do four months in Dublin, I decided to opt for the six-month visa to the U.K., figuring that London couldn’t be that much different from a city 40 minutes away (via RyanAir).

Yeah, if I had to describe London in relation to Dublin, I’d say it’s pretty much the same except it’s the exact opposite and everything costs a lot more.

So here I am, a researcher at a large financial publishing company. Doing a job that I detest with such a fervor that I openly arrive an hour late every day, shove my headphones into my ears and blast music so loudly that my boss needs to throw things at me to get my attention. They don't care enough to fire me because my paycheck is such a negligible sum that they wouldn't even be able to mail a package with it, and I'm useless whether or not I'm here anyway.

My job is very simple, really. I call representatives of financial corporations and ask them to fill out surveys. Some are nice but usually I can literally see their hand coming out of the telephone and swatting me away like a gnat that swarms persistently over their penne alla vodka. Sometimes they yell. These are my favorites as they add a dash of spice to an otherwise vanilla working day. The ones that yell are always from the biggest companies. The PAs who won’t let you speak to their bosses are always from the smallest.

I then compile the data into a spreadsheet, make it look pretty, and email it over to a journalist so they can write an uneven, awkward, sloppily-worded article about it and periodically take free trips to exotic locations to gather supplementary material for said horrible articles. A journalist once asked me to proofread an article, something that could have been written by a nine year-old if not for the references to the economy and finance. When I suggested, gently, that some sentence structures were a little awkward and would read better if he switched/omitted words, he rolled his eyes at me and told me he just wanted me to check for typos. After all, what does a lowly researcher with a degree in English literature and writing possibly know about good writing?

Despite this, I survived the last five months relatively unscathed, and in two weeks, will be returning to New York City where people don’t look at you like you have the Ebola virus when you try to strike up friendly conversation in a bar.


Tuesday, December 06, 2005

First Post

The first post is always the most daunting. It has the potential to make or break a blog. On the one hand, you want to write something good, thought-provoking, giggle(maybe gag)-inducing. Something raunchy or disgusting, throw in the word "fuck" and "cunt" a couple of times. Make people cringe or choke or laugh so suddenly they end up farting through their nose in a sad attempt to stifle it lest their boss realize that they aren't doing that "special project" s/he assigned to them a week ago and still haven't heard a solid, legitimate update on other than "it's going well." You want to draw the crowd, entertain the bored-at-work masses, and establish a strong following of readers. On the other hand, you don't want to give too much away. You can't write your best post first, run out of juice, and let every post that follows become increasingly disappointing.

So the obvious start is to break it down, explain the premise of this blog, and give all the fellow corporate bitch masses the option to continue reading, or click that little 'x' on the top right (or the little box on the top left if you're wack and you own a Mac) and get the fuck outta here.

We aren't much different from you, I'm sure. We're brother(B) and sister(L) who have fallen victim to the lure of stability, servitude, and financial security offered by the corporate world. We divide our time at work equally between pretending to work and blatantly slacking off, and what better way to do it than writing a blog?

What makes us different from (or maybe even more similar to) you? We are the products of 26 and 22 years, respectively, of a fucked-up, strict, borderline abusive, completely dysfunctional Korean-American-Roman-Catholic-Elmhurst-Bayside upbringing.

We were recently offered the job title of "CEOs of the World" and, after much deliberation, graciously accepted under the strict premise that we would share the title equally, be allowed to do whatever the fuck we want, and we could tell everyone that we're better than them, point, laugh, and make them get us coffee.

This blog is to help us whittle away time between bathroom/cigarette/coffee/quickie with hot co-worker in the conference room breaks and, hopefully, help you do the same.