Joshua's fired

Some people say that every story is worthy of being told. Other people helpfully point out that while this is true, it doesn't change the fact that not every story should be published for the world to read. The following is one of those stories. Oh, and of course it features Joshua, in a slightly less annoying format than usual.

Joshua walked into the room and said to no one in particular, "Hello everybody!" The three occupants of the room, who had been staring morosely at the far wall, where a broken TV wasn't showing anything, didn't even bother to look up. One of them said, "What is this, you want to feature in a story, so the rest of us have to suffer?" Joshua didn't quite know what to make of this response, and he proceeded to say, "What's that supposed to mean? I thought you guys enjoyed the publicity. If I had known that this wasn't quite your cup of tea then I-" He was cut off in mid-sentence when one of the guys pounded loudly on the table and said, "Enough of your infantile prattle, Joshua, do you have nothing better to do than tell us your problems? Go star in your stories somewhere else. Just leave us in peace." Joshua was quite put out when he heard these words, and he turned to leave the room, saying as he exited, "I see. After all I've done for you, all the hard work I put into making you guys successful, this is how you treat me. Well, you know what? I'm finished with you. Good day!" With that he slammed the door and walked outside, impressed with his own resolve but also scared at what he had just done. These guys were his best friends, if only because they were his only friends. He didn't know what he would do now, but he supposed he had burnt his bridges behind him, and now he would have to think of something.
Joshua took his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed his therapist. His therapist picked up, and said, "Hello Joshua." Joshua was so shocked that his therapist had picked up the phone (usually he just let it ring) that he couldn't think of anything coherent to say, and just mumbled greetings. His therapist was quite concerned, and expressed this yodeling loudly. Joshua was quite concerned at this, because his ear felt like it was about to fall off, and he ended the call. As that hadn't been much help he called his spiritual adviser, and she too answered the phone. Unfortunately for Joshua, she only spoke Sanskrit, and they were forced to communicate by grunting. "Oomph, eemph," began Joshua, and she immediately countered with, "Oaph Oomph." After doing this for a few more minutes Joshua's throat began to hurt, and anyway, she wasn't helping too much, so he ended the call. It wasn't a hard decision to make.
Joshua considered his options for a moment, and realizing that they were severely limited he began to walk down the path. Behind him the door opened and one of the men who had been in the room popped his head out and said, "I knew it would take him forever to leave, that guy is so weird, and he has absolutely no idea what's going on." Another of the men joined him at the door, and as they watched Joshua get into his car, he said, "Yeah, he really is a piece of work. Who does he think he is exactly? And you're right, he has no idea what's going on. For a guy who spends all he days thinking about other people's opinions of himself, you would think he would notice what other people thought about him. But no, he's too caught up in his own little world for that." The third man, the one who had originally spoken to Joshua, joined them, and he said, "There but for the grace of fifteen years of expensive private education goes I. You see that? All that promise, all that potential, and he wastes it like the stuff was cheaply available, like-" His metaphor failed him, and all he could do was gesticulate violently with his left hand as he said, "Like, well, you know what I mean. Joshua could have been so much, but he threw it all away, and now he's left with nothing."
Joshua was, as these bright thoughts were being aired, engaged in maneuvering his way out of the parking lot and into the street. He knew he'd have ten minutes to ruminate over the morning, and try to figure out what to tell his charlady, who would soon be asking him how his latest story was going. What would he tell her this time? She wasn't very persistent, and he knew he could get her off his case with a couple of intelligent answers, but he didn't have the strength to even formulate these. He was beaten, and he knew it. Still, he hated to end off a story this way, so he pulled into a gas station and bought a dozen doughnuts. If he was going to be depressed he might at least have a little company.