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Angry Grade School Girls

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In September of 2009, I was working in Hong Kong for Prudential, a month after graduating with my master’s degree in business – when I was invited by the Vice President out for dinner that night.

He was suspicious of my visit, as was everyone out there, despite how straightforward I had been about my job and responsibilities, which was to technologically review the state of Asia and make sure that technological expenditures were aligned with expectations.

They’d considered it an audit. Understandably so. But in truth it was less about an audit and more about ensuring the financial independence and accountability of Prudential’s international arms in Asia and Europe and severing the dependence they’d had on domestically based decisions.

Put in simpler terms: Real Estate and relocation in Asia and Europe was proving to be more profitable than the domestic business, but domestic leaders were abusing the loose controls on the international businesses and shifting this profit domestically making it appear like there’d be greater financial gains within the US than there really was.

So in September 2009, I’d been invited by the VP to this exclusive lounge.

You know, the kind you need an invite for.

At the top of one of the towers in Causeway Bay was a guarded elevator which went up no more than three stories and opened up to an ostentatious mahogany laden room with expensive furniture and men in expensive suits all around.

Some had cigars they were puffing on. Everyone had a cocktail in their hand. Attractive women in formal attire served appetizers – spinach, crab, and weird biscuits that tasted fantastic.

The Vice President and I sat at large comfortable leather chairs, when no sooner did we sit than the a formally attired butler type came and asked if we wanted a menu. The VP said no, I can’t remember the guy’s name, as he ordered two t-bone steaks – with garlic mashed potatoes – cooked medium rare.

The view of the waterfront was amazing.

I remember thinking “I’ve made it” as we chatted about anything but work.

I’d graduated with my MBA only a month before then.

And as the steaks were served, I remember thinking “I could get used to this”

When I chose my major – at Thunderbird – I chose it because it felt right.

It wasn’t about altruism. I didn’t want to make the world a better place. It wasn’t about money. I’d done decently for myself financially. It wasn’t even about power. As an introvert I tend to shy away from attention.

It was all about opening doorways like this.

Doorways where I was treated better.

I’d gone to night clubs, and as I saw a perfectly ordinary guy with a group of friends and gorgeous females in tow who were being ushered through the riff-raff to the VIP areas, I couldn’t help but wonder.

Who is he and what does he do to make him special?

This continued through my adult life.

A friend of mine had managed his money decently but there was something about him I didnt understand – as he was given a ‘black card’ by American Express. Enough credit that he could literally buy a jet on it and not blink an eye.

I’d dreamed of having my own private jet to fly to Paris on a whim.

Even though Ron Ostreim was a dear friend, with my confusion of what was going on around me and who was who…

I couldn’t help but think – who is he, really, and what makes him so special?

I came from a lower middle class background, and struggled to afford a Lexus on credit that somehow I couldn’t afford with a house.

There was an amazing job being offered at Intel and me and my friend, Bill Stokes, were both being considered for it.

Similar experience. I’d had more track record with Intel though, and seemed like the obvious candidate, so when i was denied the job…

I couldn’t help but think..

What makes him so special?

I mean. I loved the guy, he was my friend after all, but for this job that I so badly wanted…

I guess, over time, the thought process became more vicious.

I met and fell in love with Rachel Gooch, a married woman who’s relationship with me she referred to as a mistake…

While we were with eachother, I’d met her husband.

And when I asked the question – what makes him so special?

Throughout my life, I’d worked and worked and worked to achieve so little.

And as I’d look at movie stars on tv living lives I’d dreamed of, or I’d watch other shows like “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” or “Cribs”, living in places I’d dreamed of, or I’d watch news shows featuring people like Bill Gates or Warren Buffet being respected by millions…

Over and over again, I would ask myself.

What. Really. Makes. Them so special?

Why couldn’t I have the woman of my dreams in a woman like Rachel or a mistress like Jackie?

Why couldn’t I have the house of my dreams that no one I’d seen had ever constructed? The kind with a dungeon, a moat, a harem, a ski slope over it, and a landing strip next to it?

So as I sat there, having a glass of wine talking to a man who led Prudential in Europe, badly I might add.

I realized something.

I do deserve all that.

And more.

You see. You labeled me as a jealous God.

Did I become jealous because of your label? Or did I get jealous because of a war with my own mind and the simple fact that I had constantly had the things I wanted and had created for myself taken from me and distributed collectively ‘for the greater good’?

A job. My lovers. My friends. My inventions.


Collectively as a world have increasingly chosen to disbelieve in me as I’ve served your interests.

I suppose that’s why I want a Borg invasion and Terminator war.

It’s not that I want to see anyone suffer.

It’s that I am so tired of living for you selfish humans who utterly refuses to help or even listen to the man who created everything.

That I’m conserving my remaining energy to take what I deserve.

Make a spectacle of it all.

And make it entertaining for me.

Planet Earth. If you’re listening.

I’m God. And while I dont want to be acknowledged as such.

It’s something I have to take responsibility for.

Or else.

The alternative to accepting me and letting me reap some rewards for a change is going to make Hitler seem like an angry grade school girl.

But will delight me.

This oddly feels like one of my last communications.


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