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The Absolutely Deranged Death Note of a Delirious Banker

By Srihith Jarabana Dear Esteemed Colleagues, Friends, Pets, and Family (in that particular order please), 


I hope this note finds you in a safe place while you deal with the cyclone of numbers, badly formatted spreadsheets, and the occasional existential crisis that is the trademark of our profession. So allow me, if you will, to entice you with a story that will leave you in shambles.


Okay, imagine this scene: a fluorescent-lit cubicle, where the smell of cold coffee mixes with the distinct scent of monotony. I, your humble narrator—of course, found myself ensconced in my chair (which somehow struck an interesting balance between ergonomic and cheap), staring at a flickering computer screen that seemed to get less responsive and dull with every click. 


And then it finally happened. 


A lone thought sprouted in my overtaxed brain. What if, I wondered carelessly, we conducted our next quarterly meeting entirely in interpretive ballet? Unfortunately, my ambitions were quickly crushed as I realized that, despite my undying devotion to spreadsheets, I possessed the skill of a drunk ostrich on ice. 


But oh, the madness didn't stop there. Why would it? 


In a moment of pure clarity, I decided to hold a company-wide call for the sole purpose of discussing the nuances of the best dipping sauce. The fermented silence on the other end of the line was palpable, marked only by the nervous clearing of throats and the distant hum of an office printer working tirelessly to produce reports that—let’s be real—no one would ever read. 

 

As the days wore ever thin, some might say that my antics grew more outrageous. For instance, I insisted on taking my most essential meetings while seated in a kiddie pool, complete with rubber duckies. Why, you may ask? Because if finance is indeed a serious business, then what better way than by showing it off with the absurd to really hammer in the point? 


Alas, my tenure as the office's senior project manager was short-lived, but it was beautiful, like a dying mushroom. I was escorted from the office to the roof, told to take the elevator at the top and leave while clutching a rubber chicken and a program filled with nothing but doodles of the best-dressed boy bands ever. 


And so, here I am, retelling you this with caution from the realm of the upstairs balcony (is it a bad time to mention my fear of elevators?). Now I, too, will attempt to fly from the roof like an ostrich or even a rubber chicken. May it serve as a reminder that even in the halls of finance, a touch of madness—genius—can be the fuse that allows you to lift off into new territory. Or at the very least, it can provide you with a slightly awkward story to tell at the next stupid company retreat. 


Yours truly,


A Self-Identifying Delirious Banker

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