Enjoy :mrgreen: Tales of a Stressed Investment Banker Being a high-flying city slicker has its benefits. I don’t regret the cars, the chicks, the bubbly and the swimming pools filled with mineral water. The parties on the French Riviera don’t hurt either. It has its niggles too. You know, the fiddly bits that seem to cling to the bottom of your shoe like the s**t you just stepped in while going out the front door - courtesy of your neighbour’s new dog (“Isn’t he gorgeous!?” Like the high school teacher spending more time picking chewing gum off the bottom of his soles with rotting keys than marking essays. Well, the latest thing to hit home for poor old me was an irritating comment from the biggest prima-dona unhelpful b*stard to hit the financial scene since those slimy sub-prime pr*cks in America: Marcus. Said he enjoyed my guidance on the assignment, but that I need to, as he put it to my partner, “de-stress a little”. “DE-STRESS A LITTLE!?” - Does he know who the f*ck I am!? I pay his wages! And the wages of fifteen other slime balls trying hopelessly to make a name for themselves in the cut-throat world of investment banking. “De-stress”!? I’ll f*cking give him de-stress - when his is the throat getting cut. By me! I don’t need to calm down! Who the f*ck would ever have the audacity to tell me to de-stress? I’m a calm ****ing person, thank you very much, and I don’t need suggestions on how to alter my character. If he thinks I could de-stress, I think he could get the f*ck out the building and never come back under my management again! How dare he!? IT DRIVES ME MAD. More annoying than when the hole puncher breaks open, sending those little f*ck-off white circles cascading down onto the office floor, leaving you with the lovely job of inhaling dust and getting back-ache while you try to clear them up. More irritating than that gold tinsel sh*t that surrounds the top of your Ribena bottle, that falls into your drink as you’re trying to make it. More rotten than going into the bathroom on a freezing December morning, only to find that you forgot to turn on the floor-heating the night before. You unleash the pure urea of early morning p*ss, balls hopelessly shrivelled into your stomach. DO YOU KNOW HOW F*CKING ANGRY THAT MAKES ME!? F*ck, I’m an accomplished, respectable man from an accomplished, respectable family. I attest to the right to not have shrivelled balls in the morning, thank you very much! That’s a good way to describe my current state of mind - balls. And to think that some people reckon I need to de-stress - ha! I’m just a little twitchy. Yes, that’s right. Twitchy. I like that. Well, you can imagine how f*cking twitchy I was the day before yesterday when this guaranteed-to-be-used-as-future-toilet-paper cr*p came through my letterbox: Dear Mr. Bitterford, We regret to inform you that due to recent slowdown in the world financial markets, we are forced to make you redundant from Monday 8th December. We thank you for your services to the firm and wish you the very best of luck in the future. Yours sincerely, Caroline Tweedy Human Resources Manager Well, Caroline, I regret to inform you that due to recent fluctuations in sanity, I am forced to tell you that it is you who will be seeking certain services - those of the A&E Departament for emergency removal of my foot from you’re a*sehole! It drives me mad! And to think that that c*nt Marcus thinks I need to de-stress! Haha! I’ll f*cking murder him and the rest of those slimy w*nkers! Then we’ll see who’s the one stressed! Ha!