The Imaginary Enemy

I have an imaginary enemy. Many people have imaginary friends, but that’s just silly. I mean, are you really so pathetic that you can’t find any real friends? Me, I’m so awesome that I can’t find any enemies.

I saw some kid the other day talking to a wall. At least, that’s what I thought he was talking to, until I asked him. “This is Paul,” he said innocently. “Paul is nine feet tall and smells like canned soup.” How cute. Then the kid looked up at me, smiled, and kicked me very hard in the shin.

“Ow!” I yelled. “What was that for?”

The little boy’s eyes glimmered with all the innocence of a Fascist dictator. “You’re a crazy man.” That was when I noticed the crowd of people staring at me.

“What are you looking at? Huh? I’m just a figment of your imagination. Um, oh wait. That doesn’t make sense. I’m, uh, just a normal person, like, uh, some… one.” I thought about that for approximately thirty-seven seconds before I realized the crowd had vanished and the little boy was tugging at my pants leg. “What do you want?”

“Let’s be enemies.”

“Okay.”

“Cool. Let me get my cannon.”

It took seven seconds for my mind to snap into thirds. Because that makes sense.

From that point on, I’ve had an imaginary enemy. I’ve also had nineteen psychiatrists and have been on forty-two different medications, which I think is pretty awesome. It’s just a testament to my sheer awesomeness. Which is awesome. I think.

Until next time, this is Xavier Yes. Stay classical. I’ll be listening to tiny voices telling me to stick my index finger in an outlet.

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