As the imaginary boyfriend of an eighth grade brace-face, I have found my make-believe life to be a hell pit.
Whenever Stephanie's bored in math class or seeking refuge from the orthodontist's disappointed frown, I'm conjured and enslaved, put upon to amuse her. Not that it's that difficult. I'm an impossibly accomplished doctor, actor, hunky dreamboat billionaire, and the highlight of her week is chicken patty Tuesday. Still, everyday I want to dump Michael Jackson's entire medicine cabinet, gauze and all, down my imaginary gullet and just call it quits.
Read the rest at McSweeney's Internet Tendency