Today marks the start of a series of "lasts."

Last e-mails on the work account.

Last time staring at the patterns in the acoustic ceiling tiles.

For Christ's sake, last goddamn morning exercises!

I am walking around the office in a haze. I watch myself shaking hands, saying goodbyes, tying up loose ends from a third person point of view. Six and one-half years is an awful long time to do the same job in a foreign country.

Over the next few weeks, time will accelerate and I will be in a rush to see old friends, catch a few new sights, and feel the rush of old, familiar feelings one last time before I go (oh, and also to move to Thailand). But it all starts here, on the last day of work. My cynical side equates this to escaping from the Yamato - fight bravely, suckers! - and it is undeniably sad to watch friends and colleagues sail off as I find a different way, but it is also the right thing to do, and it is my way.

Today, I graduate from being Salaryman.

//

Background: Coworker A just came back from an overseas posting last month and is showing the same kind of displeasure about our fabulicious uniforms that we all did last year.

Coworker A: These new uniforms are so gay, my little sister wants mine when I'm done with it.

Coworker B: Why, is your sister a lesbian?

Coworker A: No, asshole, she's a girl.

Coworker B: Oh... Sumimasen.

I have only a week left; my office farewell party is tonight!

I've been compiling a task list at work to hand off my replacement, if they can ever find one (I may be *ahem* hard to replace). The thing is, I've always done a lot more at any job than what I was originally hired for, and it's hard to quantify exactly what I do. Regarding my current job, this is also compounded by the fact that I work on a sensitive project and even as I type this, a post-resignation NDA is waiting to be filled out on my desk (were all the previous NDAs not specific enough, or what?). So for the purposes of describing my duties during the past six years, I always have to be very general about what I do.

Sometime I'm envious of people who can say, I'm a doctor/lawyer/Indian chief, because there's a certain image attached to such professions (respectively: make people better/lie, cheat, and steal/serve on BOD of major casino) that, if not exactly accurate in every case, represent at least a fair guess in the right direction. Many corporate titles, however, tend to serve less purpose when used outside of the specific organization where they are used. What is a Liason? An Officer? Or for that matter, a manager? These are fairly broad terms. Plus, they tend to sound over-important to people who matter.

I need to think about this a bit more. I mean, I'm not going to embellish retroactively or anything, but I need to be able to describe clearly, without sounding like I'm trying to bullshit - I have done the time and I do have marketable skills, but I'm obligated not to describe what they have been used for until now, which is unfortunate. So, for the inevitable question, "So tell me about yourself," I need a strong answer. Some possibilities:

• If you enter Chuck Norris Justin Yoshida as your character name in Oregon Trail, you will never die, because cholera is for pussies.
• Jack Bauer Justin Yoshida does not sleep. He waits.
• Crop circles are Vin Diesel's Justin Yoshida's way of telling the world that sometimes corn needs to lie the fuck down.
• When in Justin Yoshida's presence, Chuck Norris urinates sitting down.

I'm on lunch break.

My old pal Lenny just ambushed me out of nowhere with a Flaming Fist o' Tuna Roll attack to the shoulder and caused me to spill iced coffee on my pants (in the crotchital region, of course). What made today's attack unique was that he said, "I'm gonna KILL you!," as he stepped in for the blow. (Coffee aside, the shit was pretty funny, because Lenny's eyes get all googly and bulge out when he gets excited.)

A nearby coworker jumped to my aid and exclaimed, "Lenny! NO! BAD BOY! You can't EVER say you're gonna kill someone!," and also added, "right, Justin?"

As I wiped the drops of coffee from my pants, which left brown gonorrheal smears across the fly, I hissed, "Lenny... I'm gonna fucking KILL you!"

And he ran away laughing hysterically.