Outside the City Limits

Hey, everyone! I missed you all. I'd like to thank you again for reading my blog, and encouraging me to continue writing. A few orders of business must come first before it's Business Time.

The first item to discuss would be my previous works in the fictional pub of "Schweiner's". Although these stories/bios provided me with much of my audience, I was getting tired of them. I was on the topic blogging with a special friend of mine, and she actually brought up that I should stop them before I did. At that moment, that was when I decided I was done with the series. In the creative universe of my mind, I just can't be forced to write about the same stuff for the sake of supply and demand (I get enough Schweiner's as is).

The second piece of business is related to that. I am actually writing one last bio on someone in the Schweiner's world that I have wanted to do since the beginning of the Schweiner's series. It's been an inside joke with myself until now- I am gifting this bio to myself, and everyone who enjoyed the series as a parting present. I hope you enjoy it.

This will be coming after I finish this idea that's been grinding in my brain forever. It's dedicated to that special friend of mine.------------------------------------------------------------------

For Madeline

Outside the City Limits

Her lungs subconsciously let escape a relieving exhale as she passed the infamous "Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada" sign. Since its construction, the landmark had been the notorious gateway to the equally infamous 'City of Sin'. For everyone else, it was a retreat. She was going to retreat.

You see, there have been many others just like the young woman in the black car which now sped further outside the city limits. Her belongings were haphazardly packed a mere hour in advance, but she had everything she needed. Double-checking the list, she thought aloud: 

 1) Me.     

"Check"

2) Money.

"Yes, I have money, Darling, but I have no time."

 3) Starbucks.

*sip*
 
4) Car.

"It's a coupe." 

5) Yoga mat.

"Sweat sponge."

6) Towels. [Every towel]

"Salvation."

7) Black Book
 
"..."

8) Snake.

"I just want to feel him."

9) Two-pack of Menthol Cigarettes. Smooth.

"I likes it Smooth."

10) Yoga clothes.

"I'm wearing them."
 

11) Water/Food/Things I don't need.

 
"This list should have ended at ten."

She stopped herself just seconds before her instinct to throw all of #11 out the window in a nonchalant manner took fruition. Instead, she navigated her hands to the power button on her car stereo and turned the volume up to the point where it would vibrate her entire soul. The CD-Player made a slight clicking noise as it began to read the disc. The first words came after a short, tranquil instrument sounded...

"Om Namah Shivaya, Om Namah Shivayaaaa.."

She lit up the first Smooth- the first of many Smooths on this journey forward.
On a fixed path, she carefully closed her eyes and disconnected from thoughts of speed and direction. Several seconds later, her Chi was in full alignment. It was in that very state that she received an epiphany from Yogi's and Yogini's of the past, present, and future, their voices blending in a perfect harmony. The event could only be compared to multiple recordings of Freddy Mercury's played simultaneously.

In fact, her vision was of a chorus of some sort of winged Freddy Mercury/Angel hybrids descending from a single column of sunlight, piercing through the eye of the darkest storm, and saving her from the impending Rapture with the power of the legendary silk machine we call his mouth.

As the Mercury's slowly floated near on, their appearances became clear, and now levitating before her eyes were three: Gautama Buddha, Mohandas Ghandi, and Frank Gantman. They spoke all at once, with one mind.

"We have noticed you, the one they call 'The DeAngelo'. Surely, you feel that inner desire to pose at nearly every waking moment, don't you? You have been chosen. Your Yoga is growing stronger every day, and at a faster rate than ever previously exhibited. Soon, you will reach the level of Grand Master, like we, and your powerful balance and grace shall transcend time and space... And, perhaps you'll go even... further."

Having concluded their deliverance, the trilogy slowly returned upward into the sky, like a balloon accidentally set free from a childish grip that loosened at the sight of another wonderful thing. The gurus were just barely visible, when one of the figures reversed his direction, heading toward The DeAngelo. Frank stopped at an arm's distance.

"Look, kid. I know you want to do it, so just do it. The whole class is watching." Frank grinned, then zoomed off to join the others waiting for him at the hilt of the spear of light. She could no longer see anything, and so she ended her vision.

The DeAngelo slowly awoke back into the world around her. Immediately, her eyes darted for the clock - not a full minute had passed. She pressed her back into the chair, the same way one would after slamming on the breaks because some douche bag cut them off at the last moment to make it on the 2-15 off-ramp to Durango. The vision had been so intense that she'd lost control of her breathing, and was now panting like she'd just broken the surface at the edge of a swimming pool to finish a race. Someone who didn't know how smooth a Smooth really was would have thought she was insane to take a drag of one after being that hyperventilated, but Smooth is as Smooth does, and that, she did.
 
A few minutes and verses of MC Yogi later, she was staring wide-eyed out at the road ahead, as if she was debating something important. Theoretically, if God had been observing the seemingly-boring scene, this would be the part where she (God's a She) would start drifting off and begin dreaming of what it'd be like having a penis, and just as she almost saw pitch blackness.... Action.
Our heroine scans every direction in search of witnesses, and with no peeping eyes, she accelerates, and with a swift arm motion, the car roars into high gear. On her next move, she grasps the first Galilean philosophy book within reach, unbuckles her seat belt, and replaces her foot on the gas with the heavily-worn tome. Maintain speed. Her hands slight the wheel with delicate precision, cautiously releasing more with each success.

"Stay on target... stay on target...", Red Leader from Star Wars mentally reminds her, as she lets go of the wheel completely and rushes the driver window open.

If every part of a human could move at a full-sprint, in this moment, The DeAngelo would be a full-blooded Kenyan. One second, she's seated inside a closed car, the next, her hands and feet are divided ,with one half on the open door, and the other on the vehicle. Springing up with force, she makes a thump on the roof, and lies there chest-down.

Something inexplicable happens. She puts on her blinders, and mildly gets on her feet in a way that makes it seem like the very forces of Earth are completely ineffective on this strange being they're contacting. She lowers her body to remove the yellow cowgirl boots on her feet, and uses her talents to go into one of her favorite poses with her eyes closed:

Natarajasana. feel the burn.

In Frank's voice of sarcasm, she speaks:

"Everyone see Maddie? Nice moves, Maddie. You're almost as limber as me, and I'm getting Senior discounts."

She seems to awaken:
 
"Asshole."
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Wow. That took 5 hours. At least I won't need to edit. Thanks for reading.


                                       Josh Freakland

Just when you thought you were safe...

School is out. As usual, the yearning for home overcomes your senses, once you pass through the front doors, and the ability to resist the urge to walk those three miles fades with every passing moment.

Today, however, there is something different.. something special. Your imagination had earlier produced numerous theoretical representations of it during the time in the day, in which Teacher had droned on about the mysteries of our world. "Boring", you thought to yourself, as you made that final step, fumbling your key to the lock, which granted freedom.

Your entire life passes before you, everything spinning. You could have sworn you were drunk, but you've never had a sip of alcohol your entire life. The afflicted senses begin to blend together, creating excitations never thought possible before. Were you a herbivore, the thought would disgust you, but the pungent smell of meat is impossible to mistake in the closed environment of your home.

"I'm making ROAST today! It should be ready this afternoon. Have a good day at school", the scene sparks across your memory.

Incapable of creating electrical impulses independently, your body reacts to its human intuition, almost cartoonishly, and you nearly float toward the source of the odor. Your feet sheepishly finding ground through the sensory overload, your blurred, hungry vision provides you the mental picture of a large pot containing an entire cooked lamb, the meat literally falling from bone, deforming the creature's shape. Beside it, appears to be ambrosia, the liquid of the gods (in this case, as a sauce), as well as a mound of freshly-conceived tortilla chips..

In a craze, you gather heaping amounts of every element onto the nearest flat surface, your core instincts demanding you to combine the three magics. Here, they expectantly wait for you, yearning for your buds- the only thing missing is a fork. The pivotal eating utensil raises no flags in your head, as far as chores are concerned, the quick trip for its retrieval being a pitiful attempt at a setback. You arrive back at your heap of carbohydration in a matter of seconds, and the shock of what you find leaves your mind shattered, the pieces strewn across the tile floor.

In some incredible act of heresy, an evil force has acted upon what used to be your most prized possession for the last five minutes. A sickly-orange goo has coated your mountaintop, and tainted the ambrosia. It was no longer freshly grated cheese in its melted and delicious form. Enter Nacho Cheese Sauce. You'd seen and tolerated it in your past, scheming upon Sam's Club shelves, and later enhancing lesser flavorless triangles of corn, whose crusty exteriors appealed to your time constraints at your local gas station. The chips you once knew as good friends were now soggy and unable to heft the lightest of toppings. Who did this? Who ruined mother's cooking!?

WHY!?!

As you sit in a half-insane stupor, mumbling to the world about what could have been, the last piece of sentience in your brain reminds you that you'll never be the same.



And as you sit there, mindlessly poking at the edible portions of your meal, it becomes apparent: THERE IS NO GOD.

Thanks, Rocky's, you made me an atheist.

Two for $3 blue ribbons?

Where was this deal in Elementary School?
Now that I'm typing in limes, let's get down to business.

I've delivered on my promise that I would not take as much time to post my next exposition. Be proud of me. I really do feel selfish while writing this, but it really needs to be said: when I began my stories, and accurate(ly false) descriptions of my work life, I opened Pandora's Box. Let me elaborate for a moment.

If I were to consider myself an author, I would be an author that enjoys creative freedom. I love making people happy, but I also love that freedom. The last couple posts I've made here are, to me, similar to having the same steak dinner every night; it's alright to do now-and-then, but to have to return to the previous setting without much change makes it something you don't miss much. That's why I'm going to try to get past this topic as soon as possible. Granted, this is one of the more popular reasons why anyone would read my blog, and though readers' praises masturbating my ego is great, I'd like to move on.

I'm pouring this one out for the homies.

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There are many people who make Schweiner's the happening place, the shindig, the sauce, the etc. In the past, you've glimpsed the people who run the joint. Now it's time for you to meet the people who do the work. If a high-class noble were referring to us, we'd be..



The Help

I'm going to start with the servers. To a lowly busser such as myself, these are the people you need to please. Their opinions matter as much as a boss's, as they've all been working at Schweiner's longer than you'll probably ever want to be. On top of that, they give you a mysterious portion of their tips that can make you question the amount of effort you put into the job. Those are the only tips you'll probably get, however, so you just take what you can get like the parasite that you are... asshole.


Manatee: Manatees are large, fully aquatic, mostly herbivorous marine mammals sometimes known as sea cows. What you may not know is that a Manatee can also be a great server. Manatee is one of our many resident members of 'The Help' who speaks Spanish as a primary language, and he's among the best we have. Manatee speaks English very well, which is a trait I admire when it comes to understanding what someone is saying to me. Manatee is a rare, elite breed of restaurant machismo that I like to call a "Super Server".

Example: Manatee could do your job better, faster, more efficiently, and with more flair than his naturally-rolled R's inherently provide him.

His professionalism shines, and if you can make him smile, so will his teeth. This reputation has earned him a position of trust among Schweiner's upper echelons, one that is not misguided. Management knows that he probably does a lot of your work anyways, so he's the last marine mammal you want complaining about you. If that description didn't give you a good picture, think of the butler from Mr. Deedz - that's him.

The Freakout

 Welcome back. How was your sleep?

Hey everyone. I know it's been a while, and I'm sorry for that, but I'm finally delivering on at least one part of that continuation that you've been asking for. Read on for more adventures, more misadventures, more personalities, and most importantly, those moments where you find yourself doubting whether you're reading fictional stories, or actual occurrences. If there's anything I want to stress in this mini-series I'm doing, it's that all of these stories are  true, except all of it never happened in real-life (Hint: that disclaimer ;]).
  
Once again, I'd like to apologize for the lack of updating. The way I'm writing all this, I have to set aside a huge chunk of time for an update. Example : as of the last hour-and-a-half I've been writing, I'm about 90%  finished with Gay's story. Wracking my brain to perfect wordings, voices, and then presenting it all in a nice package takes a lot of work and concentration.

There are also other setbacks, as I learned the hard way five minutes ago.

 "What happened five minutes ago, Josh?! Tell me now, I'm so scared!!", my biggest fan cried.

You know how I said I was just about 90% finished with Gay's story? I was trying to finish it on the original page, and ran out of room (which I didn't know existed), so I cut it from that page and started this one. As I was creating this one, the fonts kept fucking up, so I made what I realize now was a fatal mistake, and copied/pasted a period in the proper font, so any further typing would conform to it.

 I wound up losing about 300 words, which sucked, but I'm not gonna give up on this. 

Update: Five hours later, here's a new continuation. Much, much, more than I intended to write, but there's a lot of new stuff, including: an expanded-upon scene that can be equated with purple acid trip into a brutal alternate reality, and my first experience with the emotion of HORROR. Enjoy.




The Gay Incident, Part II (v1.5)
Several grunts later, Gay looks like a middle-aged male ballerina, standing on his tip-toes as he tempts fate trying to heft the new box of Dr. Schmepper syrup to the 6'-tall top shelf of the syrup racks. 

As I see this, my mind's eye is flooded with visions of his gruesome demise: 
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His once-youthful back muscles are a thing of the past, and though it's a struggle to use them for even simple tasks, he believes he has one left in him. Gay is a single inch from securing the box into place, and a single inch from setting the right example for the young man he hopes to guide to success. But right at the last millimeter, his confidence, drive, and passion are cast aside as his own back gives up on him.

The box falls back onto Gay, sliding through his arms, and toward his sternum, threatening to knock the wind out of him. His back may have failed, but his legs still work, and he knows he doesn't need his back as much, now that the box is below his head. Gay instinctively decides to regain control using the power of his thighs. His instincts are the next thing to fail. As Gay catches the Schmepper, the sudden impact of the box and a full shifting of weight makes him stagger backward a few steps toward the ice machine.

Josh, who had recently refilled the restaurants ice, hadn't noticed the errant pieces of solidified water that had accidentally been strewn about during his duties. In Gay's recoil backward, he steps onto a hard and slippery cube: normally, it would be easy to crush with a shoe, but his awkward step and center of balance are enough to cancel out crushing force, and any slip resistance his shoes offer. 

Gay is now airborne and in symphony with the soda, yelling out in curse. The lack of grace makes this look like a backflip gone wrong. In his peripherals, he notices that Josh kid diving for him, but he's too late. Fifty pounds of syrup and cardboard slam onto his face at the exact moment the back of his head collides with the hard tile. The combination of force cracks his skull. A movie-esque last exhale is heard. This is about to happen...
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...Or so I thought. Thankfully, it never did. Gay was able to properly place the box, avoiding the bad thoughts I had about it. I quickly dismissed them, as it was entirely possible that the long work day had put me in a mood that made me doubt his abilities. Now that I think about it, though, it was most likely foreshadowing, or a sort of ill-omen about to come to fruition, just not in the way I expected it. Because, you see, this was not Gay's only test.

 After a fitting, and well-expected breather, Gay was now to proceed to the next step of this soda process. It's at this point where Gay was given a choice, one that is most-often given to people defusing WMDs in action movies. There were two nozzles hanging on the side of this godly tier of the soda rack. He was to choose which one was the proper connection; the one that would ensure the good doctor would check up on his caffeine addicts once more to inject their taste buds with all twenty-one of his flavors. Was it the green one, or was it the red one?

I just want to say: If that soda was an explosive device, I would be dead right now.

 

I watched in slow-motion as Gay grabbed the green nozzle. 

Clarification: When I said slow-motion, I meant he had mysteriously slow actions. These had a meaning to them that I didn't know about until after this incident; it meant Gay was hammered off Jager. Now that I have this knowledge, I detect these kinds of movements every day.

 Anyways, Gay grabs the nozzle, and attempts to create a connection between the restaurant's taps, and the Shmepper. Almost immediately, a gush of brown syrup began to cascade down onto the floor, Gay, the liquor closet, and every other bag of soda - there's about fourteen of them.

A strange electrical signal fires off in my brain at the sight of the mess and lack of progress. I don't recognize it.

Gay swears. "Ah fuck. Why in the hell is it doin' dat?"

My mouth swings ajar as I watch him look at the nozzle, and then, once again, try to attach it. The idly hanging red nozzle became background object in the presence of the ongoing insanity. This time, after pushing the nozzle in, he attempts to screw it on as fast as possible. This time, it was a hearty helping of syrup, enough for at least twenty pancakes, made possible by the extra time spent attempting to screw it on. 

That same strange electrical signal fires off in my brain at the sight of the mess and lack of progress. I recognize it, and my curiosity of its meaning stabs me in the back. 

The feeling was of foreboding, dread, and fear coming true. That second, I discovered: it was horror. It was the first time I'd ever felt horror. 

Let's do a stream of consciousness defining this horror:

Fucked-up shit is happening. 
Fucked-up shit is getting worse. 
My boss is creating fucked-up shit, and not stopping. 
Bosses don't clean up fucked-up shit.
I clean up fucked-up shit. 

My boss defends himself out loud, while still looking upon the nozzle, "I don't know why its doin' dat! I been changing soda for twendy years, and I have never seen it do dat." Reality throws itself out the window as Gay starts attempt #3, and this time it's a waterfall.

My hands put themselves on my head. I wanted to yell as loudly as possible at my boss to stop. I mouthed "WHY?" and pleaded to his back.

My boss recognizes his mistake. "Stupid shit." he mutters as he connects the red hose to the bag. 

"Sorry boud dat, kiddo. You're gonna want to go ged a mop. We godda ged dis cleaned up or else fruit flies are gonna come in here."

 "And a rag.", I say, knowingly.

 "Nah, you don' need a rag. Just grab da mop."

I grab the mop/rag, and when I return, Gay has disappeared.

Fifteen minutes into the cleaning, Belinda, the bartendress comes in. She doesn't see me crouching with my rag, wiping away the caramel-like spots in places no man has cared (or had) to clean before. I'm unintentionally hidden behind the miscellaneous boxes, but she hears me.

"Who's there?"

"Me. Hey.", I sigh as I stand upright into her line-of-sight. 

"Whatcha' doin' back there?", she questions, while picking up a large box of empty bottles Gay previously yelled at her for keeping. 

 "Just cleaning up Dr. Shmepper. 'Gay chose poorly.'"

Death is still lingering in my mind as I reminisce of a past Indiama Jones scene involving wrong choices.

"Musta' been that second triple-shot of Jager."

"OH! Yeah. Musta'.", I declare, as return to preventing fruit fly colonies. 


 Why do I avoid Gay?


I finished work at 8:50. I left Hell at 9:50. 



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WHEW! That was a long one. I got carried away a bit. I know today was only the finisher of Gay's story/bio, but I do intend to start dishing out coworker bio's soon. Way sooner than this time. Thanks. 

And uhh... stay away from Gay. ;) 

The Most Interesting Blog in the World.. of Josh Freakland

"I don't always see Larry, but when I do; he just sits there."

WARNING: The following is a completely made-up work of fiction depicting an alternate reality called "The Wonderful and Wacky World of Josh Freakland", and all characters/descriptions were taken directly from Josh Freakland's imagination.  It should not be interpreted as any form of real. Any similarities to actual organizations, people, places, experiences, names, events, businesses, etc. are completely coincidental. Seriously, you'd be insane to think that these descriptions are of actual people. Josh Freakland isn't even a real person, himself. 

That should do the trick. Let's begin.

About four weeks ago, I completed the transition between my first two jobs.

For my first job, my official title was "Sandwich maker". This is false. I have never been a sandwich maker. For the one week that you could say I was being trained to make sandwiches, I never 'made' them, I attempted them. I was quickly moved to the café because I was much better as a coffee barista. I specialized in giving people tastier heart palpitations than the creators of Starbux could've ever possibly imagined, as they ripped bongs and hugged trees to the top of the world coffee market. Yes, my caramel macchiatos induced a fuzzy euphoria in people whose only business here was to kiss the ass of the law with at least $250 of their hard-earned money.

It was great fun, and it made me happy, but it would eventually come to an end, once my weekly hours went into single-digits, and a friend told me that Schweiner's was finally hiring a new busboy. The job description was, for most indents and porpoises, the same thing I was doing, minus the specialty coffees. So I, Josh Freakland, applied at Schweiner's, and got the job.

It's been four weeks since then, and finally, I've been blessed with job security and the ability to recreate the movie Waiding for twenty-eight hours every week. The wonderful, wacky world of Josh Freakland has entered the melting pot.

Welcome to Schweiner's, where every day is a mixer!

Allow me to introduce you to my notable co-workers (most of the Mexicans aren't notable, and justly, aren't mentioned). This week, we'll go over the top of the food chain.


Raj:  Raj is one of the co-owners of Schweiner's. Each week on Wednesday, everyone comes to work wearing a tucked-in, collared shirt and a pair of Dipendz Diapers, ready to shit our pants trying to to look busy when we aren't on the one day he comes in. His business attire is infectiously stylish - it's a tucked-in, collared shirt. He looks like a normal, clean-cut, tall, white guy, and even has a normal, tall, white guy voice, and though his voice doesn't particularly boom, we still bow down to him like he's God. Because he is. Here's why -

Somewhere in his glorious estate, there is a room, most likely without any lighting. There, Raj sits in a most-comfortable recliner taller than even he is, with the room's width of  TV-screens towering up to the ceiling. The only space on the the desk without TVs is a two-foot -wide semi-circle, and on it sits a vintage microphone used exclusively for reminding you who you work for. Those cameras you see around the ceilings in Schweiner's? They aren't merely video cameras that Raj has a private feed to; they're Raj's eyes. HIS eyes. No joke, he's called one of our servers (the other Raj AKA Rajah) at 4pm when he wasn't even there, and delivered this stern warning: "Tuck in your shirt".

Larry: Larry is the head chef and second co-owner of Schweiner's. You can hold him personally responsible for many of the amazing, life-changing recipes that you can taste at Schweiner's, in addition to rocking his black chef's suit every time he visits. Sometimes he has paperwork, and some light discussion with someone. He appears to be a very cool dude.

I don't always see Larry, but when I do; he just sits there. 

Ric: Ric is the man that hired me. He's a good-looking guy in his early forties. I respect Ric because he doesn't fuck around. You don't need to call in backup during a stampeding rush of hungry drunkards, you need Ric. This is due to him being the type of manager that will actually join their employees in serving customers for a good portion of time, even when it isn't busy, while still doing the manager disco or whatever they do in the back office for most of the day. The employees all know what Gay does, they just don't know what Ric does. No one does.

Rumor has it, it's many, many lines of cocaine.


Gay: Gay is my other manager. He's most likely in his early 60s, and possesses an accent similar to Sarah Palin's (turns out its a Minnesota accent). A funny thing about Gay is that I knew who he was before I even applied at Schweiner's because I had heard the stories. The first bit of advice I was ever given at work was more suited for surviving a robbery. "That's Gay. Try to avoid him. If you can't, do whatever he says." Immediately, I figured that maybe this guy carries a sawed-off shotgun and enjoys pointing it threateningly at employees. I later understood what they meant - Gay is the #1 cause of you saying "Are you fucking kidding me?". Give me a moment as I put my wand to my head and extract one such memory to place in the pensieve. WOOOOOOOSH!!! We've arrived in the distant past of  last Saturday.

Saturday night. It's 8:50 PM, and Gay has decided to cut me an hour early. 
 That's okay with me, I thought, as I viewed the empty booths around me. I 
 finish my busboy cleaning/maintenance duties, and just as I'm getting to the 
 part where I limp into the women's bathroom and change their paper towels (a younger me would be so jealous), Gay comes right around the corner and says

"Gotta change da soda in dere. Have you ever done it before? Don't worry, I'll show ya how it's done." 


I should've known better... I follow him. We head to the back, and I watch as  he molests the DD bags of soda syrup until he finds the saggy, wrinkly, breast of Dr. Shmepper, a shadow of it's former splendor. He takes it out, yells at the bartender to move bottles in the back room, and then hefted a box of new syrup up in a way that made it seem as heavy as an engine block.

-Continued Above-




Tonight, I've treated you to a small taste of Josh's workplace relationships. Don't worry, there's more, and it's coming soon, to a blog near you!

"Stay thirsty, my compatriots."
                                                       - Josh Freakland


All pictures belong to the people who own them. Same thing with the quotes and who said them. Doesn't that just blow your mind?

The Melancholy of Josh Freakland

Welcome to the wonderful, wacky world of Josh Freakland

A person whose opinion (and blog) I admire a lot suggested I create a blog of my own about two weeks ago. Trust me when I say that I hadn't given it any thought, or even intended to do so until just now, at 6:03 in the morning.

On the verge of finally achieving sleep, the inspiration for this morning's post was electrically signaled into my brain like a healthy jolt of PTSD. Insomnia, much? Yeah - my mom just walked in the room and told me that I've lost my mind. I'm not going to contradict that because I have work at 11 AM, and haven't slept a wink.

Let's set sail by smashing the blog with a story in a bottle about the one thing that I was most hurt by in my entire life. I'm starting it this way in hopes that when you read future posts, you'll understand that my life really isn't that bad, no matter how shitty I may make it out to be, and how much my problems only apply to a lower-middle-class Caucasian male living in America. 


The Melancholy of Josh Freakland



A few years back, in the middle of my senior year of high school, I was going out with a decent-looking, curvy blonde girl. Crazy, right? Out of the few girlfriends I have had, this girl would have to be the one I am most proud of. It lasted THREE months, which was definitely a new record for me, and still reigning champion.

In the third month that I was her boy-toy, I was signed up to go on my German class's Euro-trip. First stop? Amsterdam. At this point in her life, my girlfriend was an avid anti-druggie and anti-drinker, which incidentally made her an anti-me. By the time I was on my way back to America, I had drank and smoked more than I thought I was humanly possible, thrown up on the Strassenbahn, bought hash off Streetalians (street Italians), ripped bongs with my friend's mom, been tempted by hookers, and drunkenly danced down German streets like my name was John Jakob Jingleheimer Schmidt, while people actually shouted John Jakob Jingleheimer Schmidt!

It was the best of times, it was the BEST of times, but, through it all, I still had managed to think about my girlfriend when it mattered, and I don't just mean when the hooker said "$20 suck and fuck". Not only had I resisted fucking a surprisingly hot Aryan version of Roxanne, but I had chosen to buy my girl a gift. During the waiting time for a bus in Heidelberg, I had stumbled upon a curio shop. It mostly contained garbage for being a bunch of handmade stuff. In the middle of searching for the diamond in the rough, I'd finally found it: an aesthetically pleasing handcrafted miniature piano music box with a ballerina that spun around the interior of the piece when music played.

After conversion, it was around $110 for the piano, which I had loved so much, I had only assumed my girlfriend would just as well. And even if she didn't, she'd enjoy the sentiment.

Fast-forward : I'm sitting back at home in the US opening up the piano on the landing of my stairs, because screw going all the way up stairs. After fumbling around with the gift at home to see if it worked correctly, I noticed that it wasn't working correctly - the winding mechanism was acting funky, and it'd stop playing music unless you'd nudge it midway. It sucked, and while the piece still worked and looked pretty, trying to fix this small problem had been ruled out.

I text my girlfriend telling her I brought her a gift back from Germany. "What is it!? :)" she texts back excitedly.

"I got you a miniature piano music box with a ballerina that dances inside it! There's one itsy bitsy problem with it. The winding mechanism doesn't play correctly all the time, but I really think you're gonna like it because I thought of you when I bought it! :)"

Now that I think about it, this may have not been the best way of presenting someone a gift. But, in the end, gifts are free, right? The whole point of a gift is to let someone know that they're appreciated and thought about. Enjoy that foreshadowing, and then watch this:

"so you got me a broken gift?"

"Well, not exactly. It still works, it's just that sometimes you have to nudge the winding thingy to keep the music playing. Otherwise, it's  really beautiful."

"it sounds broken"

This was the point in which I started to feel this horrible feeling in my chest, about the place where the heart should be. Once I read that message, every part of me knew what was coming and reacted accordingly. I could feel the hurt and the sadness growing inside me. I'm pretty sure I was in shock, and I seriously didn't intend to type it out in this dramatic way to her.

"....you... you don't want it?"


"not really"

Talk about crestfallen. I don't remember what I did the rest of that afternoon. All I know is that when I woke up for school the next morning, my pillow was still drying from the tears.

Josh Freakland cried himself to sleep for the first time at 18-years-old.

Well, boys and girls! That's it for story time. You've just read a tale that'd gone missing in some dusty drawer in my head for over two years and just now surfaced. Hope you enjoyed it.

This episode of The Life and Times of Josh Freakland has brought to you BAD TIMING.

Tune-in next week for more adventures!- Josh Freakland