The Soul of Wit

My Esteemed Readers:

Perhaps, in some distant past that you only acknowledge as your own when alone or inebriated, you had an imaginary friend, or two, or twelve. Maybe, like me, you proudly proclaim your inner schism: I had three husbands (all divorced, the first remarried), several best girl friends, and at least two alter egos (that still surface from time to time). Whatever the case, it doesn't matter. None of this has prepared you for the ordeal ahead.

You, my dear lovebuckets, are going to go further than any have gone before. You are going to traverse nine circles of lunacy. You are going to become my imaginary friends.

I've been feeling for some time a lack where my friendly illusions once were, you see. No offense to any of my real friends, but more than a semester away from home has led me to some interesting conclusions. The bottom line is, making friends is a difficult business, and even once you've got them, they don't always live up to expectations. Of course we forgive them - they're our friends, after all - but it's a vicious cycle: the more friends we have, the more mistakes weigh us down. And since the human capacity for forgiveness is not infinite, some day a little rubber ducky will make us snap. We'll "forgive" them to their faces and resent them behind their backs, thus negating the friendship that we were trying to uphold in the first place.

Not only do imaginary friends cut these emotional costs dramatically, but they provide benefits as well. Need a sounding board? It's not like they've got problems of their own. If you tire of them - POOF! - they don't exist. Want them back without having to humble yourself and apologize? Oh, they were just on vacation in Morocco. They heard it was lovely this time of year.

In fact, they'd be just about perfect if we hadn't all grown up in a society that, much like Uncle Vernon, disapproves of imagination.

Now see how Revati rises to the occasion. I may have lost my imagination to the black holes of physics, chemistry, and biology, but I shall make the Internet suffice. Writing a blog is much like talking to John or Charles or Rubin - I can't see you, but I can pretend you're there.

So, let's do this, shall we? I hereby revoke your outer existence and resurrect you as a figment of my imagination. And that pretty much takes care of the initiation. From here on out, if my methods puzzle (or offend), feel free to think of me as God: I work in mysterious ways (and my word is law). The parallels, I feel, don't end there, but I'll save the gobstopping irreverence for a future entry. Oh yes, and...

ABANDON EVERY HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER.
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