Imaginary Friend

I had an imaginary friend once but, frankly, he was a real jerk.  I could barely stand him.  He was never really there for me when I needed him, and only showed up when I was buying an ice cream cone or hooking up with slutty Maria down the block. I always had to buy a second cone or a second or third condom, sometimes both, sometimes more, depending on how things were going.  Going for him, I should say.  The guy had some appetite.

The idiot could absolutely not  remember my mother’s birthday, and he always had something pointless he needed me to do when it came around.  I always regretted giving in to him.  It’s like he just didn’t give a crap.  Same deal with my Ex-es.  All three of them.  And look at me now.

“Time to go to work,” I’d say. Time to go fishing, he’d reply, wearing that vapid, shiftless grin.  It was like he had some sort of hypnotic power.  And don’t get me started on the whole money thing.  On top of all the lost jobs and un-repaid loans, there’s the mountain of bills he talked me into letting slip into collections, the trunkfull of parking tickets, and the boingity-boingity rubber checks bouncing all over town so fast you’ve got to duck one to avoid the other.

I haven’t seen him in a while, but I know he’s out there, just waiting until I get my head above water, maybe get bumped up to Supervisor.  He’ll show up.  Jerk.

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