I pride myself on my imagination. I grew up with parents encouraging me to explore the world of the unreal. I just wanted to take a second and say, “Thanks parents – thanks for introducing me into a world of nothing but disappointment!”
My stupid imagination has been so well harnessed that it’s to a point where I am slipping into a serious depression by the fact that my real life is neither my imaginary one – nor anything close. This guy is now just making it worse:
I have recently become so in love with him that I have imagined all the funtimes that we would have together: making each other laugh, bouncing comedy ideas off of each other, hanging out with him and his boys from Stella, going to shows together, and just having the best freakin’ time ever. But the chances of me meeting him, let alone dating, him are, sadly, slim. So I sit around being miserable that my one true chance at happiness will never come. In the end, I left with only my imagination and the desktop image of him offering me a box of chocolates and a dozen roses. If I only I was less creative, life would be so much less of a downer.