Try not to be surprised.
When I was around four, I used to stick a belt in the back of my pants, then crawl around on all fours and head-butt people until I had their attention. Then I'd announce I was a tiger and they needed to pet me. Sometimes I was also a cow.
I also had an imaginary friend named Chito. To this day I can't tell you what he looked like, only that he had black hair. All I could ever picture was the back of his head.
I guess I just don't have that much imagination.
Anyway, I used to take an old phone, sit in the closet, and talk to him. For hours. About what, I can't remember. Politics? Scandinavian horror films? Possibly which one of the New Kids on the Block I liked best?
I liked the gay one.After a while, I got tired of the whole Chito thing. The problem is, no one picked up on the fact that I stopped talking about him. All the grown-ups kept asking me about Chito, and I couldn't figure out how to tell everyone that I didn't give a shit about it anymore. It's kind of like when you break up with someone, but your 87-year old aunt has the memory span of a goldfish, and every time she sees you keeps asking where the nice young boy with the harelip is.
(I've never dated a guy with a harelip. I don't even know what that is...I just wanted to use 'harelip' in a blog post.)
Obviously, the adults were having a good har-dee-har-har at my expense because of Chito. Fed up, I put the final nail in the coffin.
Literally.
Grown Up: Paloma, how is Chito?
Me: Oh. I don't know. He's gone. I don't talk to him anymore.
Grown Up: Where did he go?
Me: He's dead.
Grown Up: *disbelieving silence* Oh..well..what a...a shame. How did Chito die?
Me: He went to the war and exploded. He died. So he's dead.
Oddly enough, people didn't just stop talking to me about Chito...people just stopped talking to me. How rude.
Update: My friend Vanessa brought up an interesting point: I never notified Chito's imaginary next-of-kin of his passing. Even though I was the one who sent him off to war. Which makes me the worst friend EVER.
