Life is strange. You spend a quarter of your life studying for an ideal job in order to provide for a comfortable life. But you realize that the career you've chosen does not allow a large vacancy of jobs. You've already wasted a quarter of your life working for this and you can't go back to school to study once more. So now you work nine to five in a crappy office job, doing the same thing in and out every day for six days a week on a 48 week basis with four weeks off at the end of the year. Sure, it puts food on the table and pays the rent for your apartment albeit your apartment isn't what you'd classify as something out-standing.
The problem is that you lack the motivation for your work, therefore showing in your general behaviour through your work ethics. Your job is one that lacks importance, the job simply being the delivery of mail and papers to those they are meant for in the office. The question is, however, if your position was one that lacked importance and that you could be replaced by any monkey that lacked any intellectual talent then why haven't you yet been fired. In today's society there are many hapless, unemployed and eligible workers in their own set of skilled profession that are also desperate for such a petty job as the one you now possess and not to mention, do so poorly. People much more deserving than you are, people that would literally kill and gut you in order to have the kind of work you have despite these kind of people not actually being in this country thankfully. It is things like this that keep you up at night, which you soon learn to regret as waking up without your minimum hours of sleep is tiring on the mind.
This is your life: to work a job you hate with a strong passion as you only do so in order to confirm having a meal in your belly for the week and knowing you are trapped in this cycle for what feels like the rest of your life as finding work now is quite impossible.
You are known as Phil Werrell, 24 years of age, of slim build and born as an Aquarius on the 23rd of January in 1988 during the year of the Dragon. You don't recall much of your childhood but you clearly knew your parents weren't around for it for unknown reasons. They weren't dead or anything like that but it seemed like that to you as they simply abandoned you when you were an infant, leaving you to the care of your aunt and uncle. Hailing from Auckland, New Zealand, you moved to Detroit, Michigan, America, after finally receiving a 'green card', in a means to find a better field of work which clearly did not work out for you. That was four years ago. So now back into the present, you simply work your office job as you cannot leave the country due to lack of financial funding.
You do not own alot of things of value: A second-hand 1984 Opel Kadett D, which was strangely comfortable to sit in and had smooth handling,which you also loved dearly. Amongst your other belongings is your Nokia 3310 or more commonly known as 'The Brick', a pre-owned XBOX 360 with a small collection of games such as Fallout: 3 and New Vegas and Dark Souls paired with your 20" box shaped television and finally your pride and joy, your Ipod Touch with musical pieces anging from the French House beats of Daft Punk and Benny Benassi to the sounds of Metal from Metallica to classics such as Anything Goes by Roy Brown and Big Iron by Marty Robbins. And the Beatles, who could ever forget the Beatles. Aside from these items, you own a fold-out couch which doubles as your bed and other assorted bric-a-brac that you may find in your standard apartment such as your kitchen and a room for sanitary purposes. You also own a nice collection of DVDs and a DVD player, your all-time favourites being Scarface (the 1983 version), Ghostbusters 1 & 2 and The Mask.
It was Saturday night, 6.45 PM to be exact, and it had been 45 minutes since you arrived back home. It was mid-summer, you had the stereo playing your favourite songs and to top it all off since your apartment's air conditioning was broken it was not ideal temperature. If anything it was anything but, unless muggy and hot is your ideal temperature. As you sit in your bath tub full of now lukewarm water with a chilli-bin full of ice cold beers and a few bottles of whiskey belonging to yours truly, you ponder what to do to kick start your day of relaxation. This was normal for you as you had no friends in the office and minimal friends outside of work. As you lay there thinking, not even noticing the music coming to a halt, the idea that you decide on is to simply walk around your neighbourhood and take in the sights and perhaps stop at the pub for a pint or two, depending on your mood. You get out of the bath and proceed to dry off, followed by a short trip to your wardrobe. You browse through your wardrobe and finally settle on a long sleeved white dress shirt followed with a sleeveless, thin black vest paired with black pants and black shoes. You grab a small wad of cash along with your Ipod and slip your headphones over your ears, turning up the volume as you walk outside your house and lock the door.
You decide to drop in on your local pub first, known as 'Pintes de Bière', which is French for something you never learnt nor gave attention to, and enjoy yourself a well-earned pint of stout. Well, in your mind anyway. You are greeted by a very rare yet very acceptable tune composed by none other than The Ink Spots as you arrive at 7:15 PM and the barkeep, known as E. Nigel Mavis, greets you with his usual hospitality.
"Mmm," he grunts, "What's yer poison boy-oh?"
He was never the most friendly of people.
"Just the usual, thanks." You reply.
A glass tankard filled to the brim with Irish stout makes it way to you as Nigel slides the the glass in your direction which you drank graciously, letting the coffee-like taste flood your taste buds. This was followed by three shots of whiskey and a pale lager to finish off. As you drank your lager, you look to the clock hung up on the wall, which now read 9: 45 PM, and decided it was time to go. Placing the money on the counter, which Nigel quickly picked up, you downed the remainder of your alcoholic beverage and walked out of the pub, slightly inebriated. As you stroll/stumble along the pavement, you have an encounter with the old park you used to enjoy going to back in your childhood. This park was actually quite a distance from your home and despite your better judgement along with pondering on how you actually got there, you decide to walk around and let nostalgia seep in. After a good few minutes of walking around, breathing the cool air of the night, you take a seat on a nearby bench and stare at the night sky. Despite not being able to see anything due to the city lights, you still attempt to gaze upon the moon and the stars. Suddenly fatigue takes over and you find yourself slowly losing consciousness, as the voice of Nat King Cole lulled you to sleep.
You awake with a sudden jolt, sitting up as you bring your hands to your face as you rub at them at a futile attempt to rid yourself of morning grogginess. Suddenly, you realise that your hands aren't exactly your hands, in the sense of your hands being a bright pastel colour. You gaze down and find everything you own being nice pastel shaded colours, leading to you observing your surroundings which were also (surprise) bright pastel colours.
OK. You think to yourself. Just remain calm and collect your thoughts in an orderly manner.
"Where the bloody hell am I?!" You scream to yourself.
Smooth stuff. The voice in your head says. Your thoughts of silence and recollection fail miserably
Shut up. You reply to yourself. Blame it on the al-al-al-al-al-alcohol.
T-Pain sucks ass.
I agree. Let us never do that again nor speak of it. I beg of you.
Agreed.
"Ya'll be in Equestria sugar cube," said a thick, feminine Texan accent, bringing you back to reality "Now you got five seconds ta explain what ya are and yer business here 'fore I buck yer alien behind off mah land."