OTAS, you found it

After my debauchery on Thursday night I haven’t slowed down much. But my excuse is the parents: They were here on Friday night and it just wouldn’t be proper to see them and not have a hangover the next day. So they stayed at my apartment and we hooched it up Friday night. Saturday night was more tame (as it should be) because I had nobody to entertain and with it being butt-wrenching cold outside, I didn’t feel like traveling anywhere. But today it was more beers with my brother and parents while watching the Bulls.

All this has got to come to an end this week. I start the new job tomorrow and have to make a decent first impression on them. There was an appealing comfort level with being at Mercer: I’d staked my reputation (for better or for worse) and could generally fall back on it. No such comfort level now. I’m going to be responsible for a number of new accounts and have got to make a convincing case for my existence. If all works out, an Oscar may be coming my way.
Am I nervous? Not really. I’ve been in the business for long enough to be able to understand what’s going on. It’s just the part of building a reputation that is the hard part. If that works out, this job will be like budda!

Well, this is it – the final day with the firm. Any normal person would have wanted to go out gracefully, leave in a dignified way, and with professionalism. As you well know, though, I’ve never had a penchant for any of those qualities.

Sooooo, uuugh. . . last night I went out to a bar in Uptown to meet up with someone that I met the other night who works there. I go in for “a beer” and to pay a visit. The next thing you know, I bump into an old friend of the family, Dawn, and we start drinking like there’s no tomorrow. We’re doing shots, drinking beer, and smoking cigarettes. (As you can tell, I’m already making a good impression on this guy --he may as well know what he’s getting himself into).

So it’s my last day here and I have a hangover that, if channeled into physical energy, could start a truck. I probably smell like some wino off the street or a common homeless person.

So when I have my exit interview today and deliver my constructive, well thought out feedback explaining my abrupt departure, the burning question in HR’s mind will be: “Who is this drunk to criticize this firm?”

Hah!

Yes, more change. Fans (or, I should probably say, reader) of the last site have probably been abreast of the trials and tribulations over the last year or so: Arrogantly leaving my old consulting gig in New York, a failed attempt for a PhD, crawling back to my old consulting gig, making them locate me out of Chicago.

This is where my last blog ended sometime in late February. Now the update.

I’m here in Chicago. Ryan and I drove down over the end of February and I began working for the old firm. And with some relative stability returning, you would think I would relish in it and chill. . . . .No. Not me.

I decided to look for another job. And off I went – shamelessly! – looking through job postings, working the networks, and contacting headhunters. (This is only after returning to my job for two months.) I finally get an offer I can’t refuse. So what do I do? I must resign.

I don't think I'll have burned down any bridges at the old firm. No way. I came closer to lighting a bag of dog shit on fire at their doorstep and watching them run out of the house to stomp it out. Then the bridge was burned. (Okay, retarded metaphore)

Calling my practice head and giving notice was not exactly something I was looking forward to. In the back of my mind I knew that this was going to one of those events to mull over while serving out my sentance of eternal damnation. So the day before I called, I scripted out what I was going to say so that at least that flashback could provide some moment of grace.

When I called him I discovered he was out of town. So I had to resign via voice mail. I never got a response. I then e-mailed him a letter of resignation to which he responded: “Well, this is sad news.” You could cut the tension with a knife.