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10/8/00 I met my imaginary assistant Amanda a few weeks back. I was getting drunk at a no-name bar in the East Village, bitching loudly to whomever would listen that my life was a mess. "I've got too much to do, and not enough time to do it. I'm working my ass off, but there just doesn't seem to be enough time in the day. If I could afford it, I'd get myself an assistant." A young woman sitting next to me - kind of tarty looking, with bleached straight hair, high plucked eyebrows, and lips that had received more than one visit from the gloss fairy - said, "Well I could be your assistant." I looked her up and down. I checked out her slender, perhaps unnaturally so, frame. A pierced belly button peeked out from her rhinestone-studded baby doll tee. She stuck the tender top of her tongue in the corner of her mouth, and cocked her head. "Why on earth would you want to do that?" "I need a job." "I can't pay you, though." "That's ok. I don't need any money. I'm imaginary. I'm not even here right now. I'm just a figment of your imagination. How could someone who looks like me actually exist?" "I've seen girls like you on MTV. Where are your backup singers?" "I left them at home." We both shared a hearty laugh. What a minx! "So I can't pay you, you don't exist, but let me guess, you can start on Monday." "I can start right now." "You do realize I am going to yell at you." "Yes." "I will be unfair." "Yes, please." "And you know you only exist because --" "Because you need someone to blame for everything that goes wrong in your life, and you'd rather blame a skanky blond chick with a hot bod than anyone else." "God, you're good." "Oh, I'm the best." So I hired her. Will I live to regret it? Probably. But she's been alphabetizing shit all week, so I'm not ready to let her go quite yet. |