Hard Times


“Shtephen, you are schtupid!”
The German bitch owner of the Alpenhoff restaurant was yelling at me in front of two waitresses.
I had had enough.
When girls or women are watching, I can be heroic. There’s no telling what I might do.
I picked up my 12 inch frying pan, full of bratwurst, and flung it across the kitchen.
I turned–Greta had my biggest chef’s knife, and screamed, “Get out of my kitchen!”
I left quickly. I had watched Greta chop through big meat bones everyday. The rush was about to hit, so I left her with a lot of immediate problems to solve.
She held my check for one month.
Three months later I hit rock bottom. I was thirty years old. I tied a rope around a pipe in the basement, and, when I jumped off a chair, the pipe pulled down out of the ceiling.
I hit the floor and sprained my ankle. The pain was severe. 
I should’ve known my three hundred pound body would do this.
That was the wurst time of my life. Compared to then, my life now is a walk in the park.


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