An Attempt at Reconciling with the Non-Existent

by Angela Kubinec


Goddamn.  I am sick of your antics.  You took my cigarettes out of my purse and put them on my dresser just so Mom would see them.  When I told her it was you, she said I was entirely too old to continue blaming things on an imaginary friend.  She's really pissed.  Now I'm on restriction and I can hear her crying to Daddy.  I think they're going to send me to a fucking psychiatrist.

When we were little you were a whole lot more fun.  Now you've become a real troublemaker.  That thing you did with the dog was just mean, and when you materialize the poor thing hides under the bed.  Truly, you are out of control and I believe you have a personality disorder.  There was no call for you to cut all my panties in half.

I know my last dispatch to you was angry, but you deserved it.  Get a grip for chrissakes.

You still have not returned my lipstick, which would be a gesture of good will on your part.  I miss being able to talk to you, and promise that I will not slap you as I threated to do earlier.

Remember, dear, that I still have the power to sublimate (just learned that word in Chemistry) you straight into the atmosphere.  Grow up some and let bygones be bygones.  I maintain that you will no longer be allowed to borrow my clothes.  However, I will pretend you a pair of old sweats and a t-shirt so you don't have to walk around naked.

Your imaginary sister,