We used to be the best of friends. We’d wear matching little green hats, I was his wingman at all those midget parties, and I learned to speak Irish–just for him. He even told me how they make the marshmallows in Lucky Charms so magically delicious. But now he barely acknowledges my existence.
On the odd chance he does want to hang out, he’ll leave a note asking me to meet him at the end of a rainbow–a rainbow that happens to end just over the edge of a cliff. And when I’d arrive, guess where he was? If you said hiding behind a rock with an evil grin on his face waiting to push me over the edge, you’d be correct.
The worst part is, I don’t know where things went wrong. One day we were sharing a bunk bed (I even let him have the top bunk) the next he was cutting my whiskey with rat poison.
Maybe he didn’t appreciate my getting a pet unicorn. I should have seen the writing on the wall when he killed Cornelius then gave me his stuffed head as a Valentines Day present. But I was drunk at the time and thought it was a fake unicorn head. (Boy was I surprised when I discovered the taxidermy charge on my credit card bill. Jesus Christ was I shocked when I got another bill from the pet cemetery.)
Then there was the time I told him all the coins in his pot of gold were worth dick all. I didn’t see him for three days after that riff. And, when he finally came home, he was none to pleased to find me wearing a Chicago Bulls jersey while cheering for them to beat his beloved Boston Celtics. But it seemed to have blown over the next morning when I woke up to him making me pancakes for breakfast. That is until I realized what he told me was a bowl of magical fairy sugar topping was actually Anthrax.
Still I didn’t give in. We’d shared too many good times to let our friendship end over a silly thing like an attempted murder with a biological weapon. We had to give it one last shot. So I decided to book us a getaway to the very same Irish village where we first met. (I told him I paid for everything with his gold coins.) Needless to say, the trip was a fairytale come true. We got wasted everyday on gallons of Guinness and Jameson. We went to see Nessie and hand-fed her haggis. We peed over a cliff. He shagged all kinds of Irish broads. (They were actually hookers I paid for with his gold coins.) I even grew a beard and dyed it red–just for him. To say was it was anything less than magical is like saying Dane Cook is talented.
So our friendship was restored. Until we arrived home and I found his gun permit in the mail along with a box of life size targets of me. Had he not been kicked out of his Police Academy training program, it would have been perfectly normal and I wouldn’t have peed myself. But he was. And I did.
So I tried to move on. But I couldn’t let him go. Then my therapist reminded me that he was figment of my imagination and suggested that, if I stopped believing in him, he’d stop trying to kill me.