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Diary of A Fake Goldman Trader: Becoming Your Dream

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Who remembers that Craiglist ad from the 28 year old Goldman banker looking for someone to lavish with his (pretax) $722k bonus? I'm going to go with all of you because, frankly, it/he was unforgettable. The Viking stove, the custom-made oak dresser, the amazing dinners, the shopping, the great wine, the getting each other off fabulously and, of course, the baby's arm aren't things one lets recede from his/her consciousness so easily. Sure, the whole thing turned out to be fake and from the mind of someone named the Cajun Boy who does not really work at Goldman Sachs or at any other financial institution, including Bear Stearns, for that matter, but did anyone give a shit? No, us included. In fact, we were so taken by the imposter-- "real" name: Thad-- that we asked him if we could reprint parts of his journal on DealBreaker so that you all could live vicariously through his fabulous life. He said yes, if it would help him "score ass." So if you enjoy the following installment, show your gratitude.
I seriously can't believe that I'm about to let the following words cross my lips, but this is my diary and the purpose of a diary is for purging the soul and unburdening yourself of any albatrosses that may be weighing you down, right? It's also great for endearing yourself to a large swath of the female segment of the banking industry when parts of your diary just so happen to be published on a widely read Wall Street website, but that's neither here nor there. The fact of the matter remains...

Thad's empty.
Feeling unfulfilled.
Yearning for something more.
It's true. Hey, even the mightiest of men get down from time to time, and the banker life is a grind. To the outsider, everything in my life looks rosy and glamorous. They hear about me drinking pineapple flirtinis with Erin Burnett in a corporate luxury box at Madison Square Garden for the Justin Timberlake concert. They hear about me getting to fingerbang Tara Reid at the Kentucky Derby. They hear about all of the slightly above average looking women with shares in my Hamptons house who secretly plot to have unprotected sex with me in the faint hope that my seed gets planted in their wombs, that way they can birth my spawn and pop out an easy meal ticket for the next 18 years. They hear about how John Carney is so annoyed with Bess Levin because of her unrelenting crush on me and can't stop talking about me at the Dealbreaker office. They see me living in a fabulous condo, wearing the finest tailored suits and sporting watches that cost more than most people's shitty domestic automobiles. I'll admit, if it were me on the outside looking in, I'd be trying to figure out a way to buy myself in too.
But what they don't see, or if they do see it they probably just choose to ignore it, is me having to wake up at 5 am to make it to my in-office yoga-lates sessions with my personal trainer before work. The don't see how frustrating it is that Ian Fleming's private island is booked solid for the rest of the year and unavailable to rent for my birthday party. They don't see all the sleepless nights spent anguishing over whether I'll send my unborn children to Exeter or Middlebury. They don't see how the escalating price of insurance for yachts and abstract art gives me pause as to whether or not either is a smart investment right now. They don't see how much time of my life is wasted looking at spreadsheets analyzing options and hedges on water. They don't see how fucking awful it is when a long weekend I was looking so looking forward to at the Caribou Club in Aspen is ruined when that little prick Josh from my office shows up the very same weekend with my ex-girlfriend Payton on his effete little arm!
Look, I'm not saying that I'm ready to walk away from all of this, but the thought does cross my mind from time to time, and yeah, it's crossed my mind a lot lately. I could be doing so much more to leave a legacy behind when I'm gone, to leave my mark on this crazy, lonely world.
I've always dreamed of being a cage fighter. I think about that all the time. After I came in last night from Pink Elephant I spent about an hour looking at wrestling pictures in scrapbooks and yearbooks from college. I looked like such a fucking badass in nylon lycra tights! I got so worked up just looking at those pictures that I woke up my still-crashing-on-my-Saskatchewan-eelskin-sofa buddy Gabe and challenged him to a wrestling match. We stripped down to our underwear and got to rolling around the floor of my condo. The fucker almost had me tapping out when he caught me in a mandible claw, but just as I was fading I was able to grab his ballsack with my free hand and buckle him with a good nut-cruncher, a last resort in any gentlemanly tussle, but there is nothing I won't do not to lose, so I have little regret over resorting to such a tactic despite his post-match bitchy cries of protest.
If anything, the only regret I have is how waking up Gabe to wrestle forced me to listen to him bitch about some private equity Tennessee two-bagger (That's a girl who in order to sleep with her two bags are to go over her head and one to go over your own in the event that the one over her head happens to bust.) who hasn't returned his text messages.
But what I don't regret is learning that I've still got it. If I wanted to I know that I could be a great mixed martial arts fighter. I could take Chuck Liddell if I got the chance. There's still a fire burning down below. I'll still do anything to win. Yeah, I might be crazy for even thinking about leaving banking to become a cage fighter, even if there's no way I'd ever do it, but I can still have dreams. I'm a dreamer, and dreamers are crazy, right? Without dreams, what are you? Just another fucking loser, that's what!
And I'm a lot of things, but I'm certainly not a fucking loser!
Earlier: Monkey Business
Editor's Note: We'll let you know when we have a thad at dealbreaker dot com email, but for now, if there's anything you think he should address, send a note to cajunboyinthecity at gmail dot com and he'll pass it on to Mr. T.