TumbleDweeeb

Chill n’Fill
Book 3: Episode 4
Dating Disasters and Hard-Won Wisdom
Written by: Emmitt Owens
(Index #07222025)

   Friday night at the Chill n’Fill buzzed with the usual weekend split—half the crowd revved up for adventure, the other half limping in like survivors of labor forced workweek. I was halfway through cramming neon cans of energy drinks into the cooler when I looked up and nearly dropped one. Our one-eyed polar bear mascot had been drafted into Bob’s latest brainstorm: “Cupid Bear,” complete with lopsided wings and a heart-shaped box that looked suspiciously like a repurposed mop bucket.
   Pink and red hearts cut from Rubbermaid trash can lids were stapled all over its fur, a bow and arrow made from tree limbs and fishing twine was duct-taped to one paw, and most ridiculously, Bob had fashioned a pair of wings from what appeared to be roofing tin and aluminum foil. The mechanical eye, stamped “Cheinco 1957,” had been surrounded by glitter that caught the parking lot lights like a glitter grenade had gone off. The chalkboard around its neck read: “LOVE IS BLIND, BUT BEARS HAVE GOOD VISION.”
   Above my register, Salvador Dalí’s “The Persistence of Memory” had replaced last week’s painting—those melting clocks had begun to look like the timeline of my last three relationships: fluid, surreal, and slightly warped around the edges of memory. Bob’s artistic passion always seemed to predict the evening’s themes with unsettling accuracy.
   The store’s PA system crackled to life just as I finished arranging the Valentine’s candy display that was three weeks late but Bob insisted on keeping “for the romantics who run on their own schedule & those who celebrate Valentine’s on alternative days.”
     “Attention valued Chill n’Fill family and lonely hearts!” Bob’s voice carried that theatrical quality he reserved for his more philosophical announcements. “Management wishes to remind our beautiful customers that love, like our Slushie machine, works best when you don’t force it. Sometimes you get the flavor you want, sometimes you get a mysterious blue concoction, but either way, you’re getting something cold and sweet that’ll give you brain freeze if you’re not careful. That is all.”
   I shook my head, moving a half-eaten bag of “Sweetheart Sours” that someone had apparently abandoned behind the register. Only Bob could turn dating advice into a Slushie metaphor.
   The evening was settling into its rhythm when a guy in his early thirties entered, moving around with the defeated energy of someone who’d been having the same disappointing conversation for years. He wandered the aisles like he was killing time before going home to an empty house, eventually approaching with a frozen dinner and a bottle of Jack Daniels—the dinner of someone who’d given up on romance but still had standards about his alcohol.
     “Rough Friday night?” I asked, scanning his purchases.
       “Every Friday night,” he replied with a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, every night really. I’ve got this talent for picking the wrong women.”
   Before I could respond, our mystical radio system shifted to The Lonely Island’s “I’m on a Boat,” which seemed like an odd choice until I realized it was probably the most upbeat song about being completely out of your depth.
     “What do you mean wrong?” I asked, curiously despite the warning bells in my head.
       “I mean I date people because I’m lonely, not because we actually have anything in common,” he said, seeming relieved to finally say it out loud. “Like, my last girlfriend—nice person, but we had zero chemistry. Before that, this woman who was clearly way more ambitious than me, made me feel like a failure every day. And before that…”
   He trailed off, staring at his sad dinner.
       “Before that was someone who was basically looking for a father figure, which would’ve been fine except I wasn’t looking for someone to take of.” He laughed, but it was the bitter kind. “I just kept saying yes to anyone who showed interest because being alone felt worse than being with the wrong person.”
   The Lonely Island’s ridiculous enthusiasm seemed to mock his series of relationship disasters.
     “That sounds exhausting,” I said, not sure what else to say.
       “It is. And the worst part? I kept thinking the problem was them, you know? Like if I just found the right person, everything would click. But the problem was me settling for people I wasn’t actually excited about just because they were available.”
   He paid for his dinner, but lingered like he needed to finish the thought.
     “Now I’m thirty-two, single again, and finally figuring out that maybe I should learn to be okay alone before I drag someone else into my loneliness spiral.”
   There was an awkward pause where we both realized he’d just offloaded his romantic baggage onto a convenience store cashier at 9 PM on a Friday.
       “Sorry,” he said, grabbing his bag. “You probably didn’t need to hear all that.”
     “Hey, at least you figured it out,” I said. “That’s more self-awareness than most people have.”
   He left with a slightly less defeated posture, and I found myself thinking about how loneliness could make you settle for crumbs when you deserved the whole meal.
   I once dated a guy who texted “good morning” every day for six months but couldn’t say “I’m sorry” when he was two hours late to my birthday dinner. He remembered my coffee order but forgot to ask how my job interview went. Consistency isn’t the same as connection, and attention isn’t the same as care. Took me way too long to learn that difference. I kept thinking his morning texts meant something deeper, when really they were just alarm clock habits. We had the same taste in music and Netflix shows, so I convinced myself we were compatible. But you can’t build a relationship on shared Spotify playlists when one person won’t have an actual conversation about feelings.
   The worst part wasn’t even the breakup—it was realizing I’d been performing contentment for months, convincing myself that “good enough” was good enough. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what loneliness does to us: makes us grateful for scraps instead of holding out for the full meal.
   Loneliness wasn’t the only flavor on the menu tonight—heartache was pulling up with a pint of chocolate and a little sarcasm for dessert.

   About an hour later, the doors opened to admit a woman probably in her late twenties who had the distinct energy of someone who’d recently dodged a bullet and was still processing the experience. She moved through the store with the distracted thoughts of someone replaying conversations in her head, eventually selecting comfort food essentials: ice cream, chocolate, and fancy tissues.
     “Breakup supplies?” I asked as she approached the counter.
       “Ghost supplies,” she replied with a laugh that had just a hint of edge to it. “Well, technically I guess I got ghosted, but I prefer to think of it as ‘someone who found something more interesting or just couldn’t relate.’”
   As if summoned by her philosophical approach to modern dating disasters, the radio shifted to Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe,” its bright optimism felt like emotional slapstick in surround sound.
     “That’s a very mature way to look at it,” I said, scanning her therapeutic purchases.
       “Is it though?” she asked, opening the chocolate immediately. “Because I’ve been going back and forth between ‘he’s an emotionally immature coward’ and ‘maybe we just weren’t compatible and he handled it badly.’”
     “How long did you date?”
       “Three months. Which I thought was past the ghosting window, but apparently not.” She bit into a chocolate square with more force than necessary. “We had plans for this weekend. I texted asking what time he wanted to meet, and… nothing. For four days now.”
   Carly Rae’s infectious melody seemed to amplify the absurdity given the circumstances.
       “That’s brutal,” I said. “Three months is definitely past the ghosting window.”
     “Right? Like, just send a text. ‘Hey, I’m not feeling this anymore’ takes thirty seconds to type.” She paused, then laughed at herself. “But you know what’s funny? I’m actually more annoyed about the bad manners than heartbroken about losing him.”
      “What do you mean?”
       “I mean, if someone can just disappear on you without explanation after three months, they’re probably not someone you want to build a life with anyway. The ghosting isn’t the problem—it’s the solution. It showed me who he really was.”
   I knocked over a display of “Bitter Ex” mints while reaching for her receipt, which made us both snort with laughter.
     “Sorry, our candy names are… aggressive,” I said, restacking them.
       “No, that’s perfect,” she said, still giggling. “I should buy a pack for the next time someone ghosts me. Leave them on their doorstep with a note that says ‘thanks for the clarity.’”
     “You’re taking this remarkably well,” I observed.
       “I’ve had four days to process it, plus I called my sister who reminded me that this same guy once told me a twenty-minute story about his ex’s weird laugh on our second date.” She shook her head. “The signs were there. I just chose to focus on the good stuff because I wanted it to work.”
     “THE SLUSHIE MACHINE IS MAKING LOVE SONGS AGAIN!” Bob’s voice suddenly boomed from the back office, followed by what sounded like him attempting to sing along to Carly Rae Jepsen: “Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my Slushie, call me maybe!”
       “Does he always provide commentary?” she asked, grinning.
     “Always,” I replied. “But honestly, your attitude is kind of inspiring. Most people would be way more bitter.”
       “Oh, I was bitter for about two days,” she admitted. “But then I realized that being angry at someone for showing you who they are is like being mad at the weather. It’s just information. And the information is that he’s not ready for adult relationships.”
   She gathered her supplies with renewed energy.
     “Plus, now I’m free to find someone who actually communicates instead of just disappearing when things get real. Silver lining, right?”
   She left humming along to Carly Rae Jepsen, and I found myself admiring her ability to find humor in heartbreak without drowning in bitterness. I glanced at the Cupid bear outside, its chalkboard message about love being blind somehow both ridiculous and reassuring in the glow of the parking lot lights.
     “ATTENTION CHILL N’FILL FAMILY!” Bob’s voice suddenly boomed through the PA system. “I found Jennifer’s old Christmas sweater in the storage room and it still smells like her perfume. This is not a customer service announcement, just… grief is weird, people. Sometimes it hits you when you’re looking for extension cords. That is all.”
   There was a long pause, then his voice came back, quieter: “Also, love is like windshield washer fluid—looks pretty in the bottle, serves a purpose, but if you try to drink it you’re gonna have a bad time. Stay hydrated, stay smart. Bob out.”
   I could hear him in the back office, muttering something about “Valentine’s being a corporate scam, except when Jennifer bought those little heart candies that tasted like chalk but she loved them anyway…”
   The man wasn’t wrong about grief being weird. It was also weird how Bob could make windshield washer fluid sound profound at 10:30 on a Friday night.
  
   Just when I thought we’d reached our emotional quota for the night, in came the smell of nostalgia, beer, and something deep-fried in regret.
   The night was settling into its deeper quiet when the doors opened for my third customer—a guy somewhere in his forties who approached the Funyuns display like he was on a very specific mission. He grabbed two bags, added a six-pack of Michelob Ultra, and headed straight for my counter with the intended stride of someone who had been building up to this moment all day.
     “Just these,” he said, setting everything down like someone who’d been drinking but wasn’t quite drunk yet.
       “Big night planned?” I asked, scanning his snacks.
     “Big night processing,” he replied, then immediately launched into what felt like a prepared speech. “My ex-wife used to hate Funyuns. Said they smelled like feet and made the whole house stink. But you know what? They’re my favorite snack, and I haven’t had them in six years because she’d make that face every time I brought them home.”
   Before I could respond, our radio shifted to Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” which seemed almost too on-the-nose.
       “So tonight,” he continued, completely oblivious to the musical commentary, “I’m celebrating my freedom to eat foot-scented snacks in my own damn house. Which sounds pathetic when I say it out loud, but it’s actually pretty liberating.”
     “How long have you been divorced?” I asked, not sure if I should encourage this or gently redirect.
       “Finalized last month, but we separated eight months ago. And let me tell you, dating at forty-two is a nightmare. Do you know what happens when you tell someone on a first date that your ex-wife used to control what snacks you could eat?”
   I shook my head, bracing myself.
     “They assume you have no spine, which is fair because I didn’t have a spine for most of my marriage. But then they also assume you’re going to trauma-dump about your ex all night, which is also fair because that’s exactly what I’m doing right now to a complete stranger.”
   Taylor Swift’s defiant chorus seemed to celebrate his determination to never go back to snack oppression.
     “Wait,” I said, trying to process this. “You’re aware that you’re oversharing, but you’re doing it anyway?”
       “Painfully aware,” he said cheerfully, opening one of the Funyun bags right there at the counter. “It’s like therapy, but cheaper and with more MSG. Want to hear about how she used to rearrange my bookshelf because my organizational system was ‘chaotic’?”
     “I’m… good?” I said, genuinely unsure how to navigate this conversation.
       “Smart choice. My therapist charges $150 an hour to hear about the bookshelf thing.” He popped a Funyun in his mouth and sighed with genuine satisfaction. “But seriously, thank you for listening to my junk food liberation story. It’s the little victories, you know?”
     “CINDY! WHY DOES THE STORE SMELL LIKE ONIONS AND DIRTY FEET?” Bob’s voice echoed from somewhere in the back, followed by what sounded like him singing along to Taylor Swift with completely wrong lyrics: “We are never ever getting back together, like NEVER, something something SWEATER!”
       “Your boss has excellent timing,” the customer said, grinning. “And he’s not wrong about the smell.”
     “The Funyuns or the dirty feet?” I asked.
       “Both,” he said, gathering his purchases. “But at least the Funyuns are voluntary.”
   He left with the satisfied like someone who’d successfully reclaimed his right to smelly snack choices, and I watched him go with a weird kinship—not because I loved onion-scented snacks, but because I once stayed in a relationship six months longer than I should have just to avoid disappointing someone. Sometimes the smallest acts of self-assertion feel revolutionary.

   Before I could fully process the Funyun philosophy, the doors chimed again to admit my fourth customer of the night—a little girl, maybe eight years old, clutching a crumpled five-dollar bill and moving through the store like she was hunting Easter eggs on Sunday morning.
   She went straight to the candy aisle, spent several minutes comparing options with the intensity of a baseball card collector, and finally selected a single pack of conversation hearts. When she approached my counter, she carefully counted out the exact change in quarters and pennies, her tongue poking out in concentration.
     “Just the candy?” I asked, charmed by her seriousness.
       “It’s for my teacher,” she announced. “She’s sad because her boyfriend broke up with her right before Valentine’s Day. My mom says that’s called ‘bad timing,’ but I think it’s called ‘being mean.’”
   Before I could respond, our mystical radio shifted to The Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love,” which seemed almost too perfect for a eight-year-old’s romantic intervention.
     “That’s very thoughtful of you,” I said, scanning the hearts.
       “My dad says love is like homework—if you don’t do it right the first time, you have to keep doing it over until you get it right,” she said matter-of-factly. “But I think love is more like recess. You just have to find someone who wants to play the same games as you.”
   I handed her the receipt, genuinely impressed by her wisdom. “That’s actually really smart.”
     “I know,” she said with confidence, the kind that only kids possess. “Adults make everything too complicated. Like, if someone doesn’t want to play with you, just find someone who does. It’s not that hard.”
   She headed toward the door, then turned back with one final piece of advice: “Also, tell your boss his bear costume looks like it got attacked by a bunch of buzzards, but in a good way.”
   She left like she just solved the mysteries of the universe, and I found myself thinking that maybe eight-year-olds should be running dating apps.

   As I switched the overhead lights to night mode, Bob shuffled by the counter holding what appeared to be a broken arrow from the Cupid bear display and a roll of duct tape.
     “You know,” he said, pausing to examine the damaged prop through the window, “love’s like our candy selection—half of it’s expired, most of it’ll give you a stomachache, but every once in a while you find something that’s actually sweet.”
   He held up the broken arrow. “And sometimes Cupid’s aim is off, but that doesn’t mean you stop believing in love. You just get better at dodging the bad shots.”
   With that profound observation, he wandered off to the parking lot to repair his craft project, leaving me to reflect on the evening’s parade of dating disasters.
   I walked outside for a moment, breathing in the cool night air. The Cupid bear stood in its glittery glory, looking less like a romantic symbol and more like what happens when craft store clearance meets midnight inspiration. But there was something endearing about its ridiculous optimism, the way it kept winking at passing cars even though half its decorations were falling off.
   Dalí’s melting clocks seemed to tick slower in the quiet store, each distorted timepiece a reminder that love’s timeline never made sense anyway. Three months to get ghosted, six years without Funyuns, a lifetime to find someone who’d laugh at your weird radio’s song choices.
   I found myself thinking about what the eight-year-old had said—love is like recess, you just have to find someone who wants to play the same games. Maybe that was it. Maybe I didn’t want perfect. Just someone who’d stay to watch the weird radio play the wrong song and laugh anyway. Someone who’d think glitter grenades and coffee filter wings were exactly the right amount of ridiculous.
   I grabbed a blue Slushie for myself—brain freeze be damned—and walked back to the register. On impulse, I erased Bob’s message on the chalkboard and wrote my own: “LOVE IS LIKE A SLUSHIE—SOMETIMES YOU GET THE FLAVOR YOU WANT, SOMETIMES YOU GET MYSTERY BLUE, BUT EITHER WAY, IT’S COLD AND SWEET AND WORTH THE BRAIN FREEZE.”
   Three customers, three approaches to romantic disappointment: the serial settler finally learning to be alone, the woman who found humor in heartbreak, and the oversharer celebrating small freedoms. Each story a reminder that relationships reveal as much about what we don’t want as what we do, and sometimes the best thing about bad dating experiences is the wisdom they leave behind.
   I settled back into the rhythm of my shift, thinking about pet peeves and hard-won lessons, about how humor could carry you through heartbreak without drowning you in bitterness. And maybe the real secret wasn’t about finding someone to love me back—but learning to be the kind of person I’d swipe right on.
   Outside, the Cupid bear kept its mechanical watch, slightly less angelic with Bob’s ongoing repairs but still winking hopefully at the Friday night traffic.
   Just another night at Chill n’Fill, where Dalí’s melting clocks witnessed confessions about love’s cruel timing, where people came to process their romantic disasters over junk food and questionable candy choices, and where even the most awkward overshares revealed universal truths about hope, healing, and the courage to keep trying.
   Because that’s what it all came down to—having hope for real connection while refusing to settle for performative nonsense. Learning to laugh at the absurdity of modern dating without becoming bitter about its disappointments. Understanding that sometimes the best relationships start with learning to enjoy your own company, complete with foot-scented snacks and all.