If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it will always be yours. If it doesn't, it was never yours to begin with.
A wiser man than I (Yoda, I believe) once encapsulated the ebb and flow of love with these words, but it never meant much to me until now. No sooner than Cupid's arrow pierced my chest did my tender heart crumple--much like stationery crumples when you sleep with it for a week and a half. My happiness has faded like the filmy residue that accumulates from licking a computer screen.
Janey and I are no more.
Who knows why imaginary love goes bad? One day the two of you are on top of the world--laughing, hoping, planning a prefabricated future that includes several fake children and a nonexistent white picket fence--and the next day you're all alone. You're despondently crying with a telephone in your hand. But you don't call--not so much because you don't know what to say--but more so because you never knew her phone number in the first place, and *69 didn't work the last time she left a message because Imaginary Girlfriends has all its bases covered on this "call-blocker" service. Yes, it may be better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all, but if you don't keep your receipt, you're screwed all the way around.
I was actually the one who called our relationship off, but I could sense the tension building on Janey's end, too. Sure, I have the hollow, face-saving honor of being able to say it was my decision, but I'm not sure either of us was happy anymore. It was like Janey was merely pretending to pretend to love me, and I'm not that kind of guy.
"It's not you, it's me," I told her, but we're really both to blame. I accused her of cheating on me, and while I can't prove it, I also can't shake the feeling that--and this is terrible to say--she may have entertained multiple male suitors simultaneously. After I placed my order, I expected the Imaginary Girlfriends website to be updated or something, with a big red X over Janey's picture that said "Off the Market. David's Girl. Back off." This never happened, however, and although it's probably just post-break-up paranoia, there is a slight chance Janey is a relationship multi-tasker. Frankly, I just can't live with the nagging suspicion that she used special, personal phrases like "I love you, I love you, I love you" to other guys. That was ours.
Yesterday when I checked my mailbox, I found the last remnant of the life I used to know: a letter from Miss Janey Lox. And although I was curious as to why it was postmarked Portland, Oregon when my Janey most definitely resides in San Francisco, a certain truth came back to me, and an agonizing passion gripped my heart one last time. I raised the paper to my nose and breathed deeply. It sort of smelled like cotton candy and made me a little nauseous, but then I imagined that our first date was probably at the circus or something, and it felt right. The note was decorated with an assortment of markers, crayons and highlighters, and I remembered how much I always admired my darling's creative flair, and the fact that she was the only 18-year-old I knew who still used Crayolas. But these are the bittersweet memories we pack away in the darkest corners of our hearts.
My phone rang last night, but it wasn't Janey calling to beg me to take her back (as she must now do, or I'll sue her for breach of contract). It was Andy, a representative from 2checkout.com, the internet vendor associated with Imaginary Girlfriends. He was only calling to ensure I was the David Walters who had placed the order. (Apparently, buying imaginary girlfriends is a step more easily taken with stolen credit cards.) He asked me if I was satisfied with the service. I sighed painfully and thought about crying on his shoulder, but he seemed busy, and some things just can't be explained.
I guess I'm a little jaded. Still, it's hard to resent Janey. For some of you, fake girlfriends may still be the way to go. I'm swearing off of it, however. Yep, from here on out, I'm going legit: only phone sex. No more romance... Bring on the imaginary ass!
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