When you're a writer, it's essential to have an active imagination. Sometimes I hear this referred to as "crazy," "sleep deprived," or even schizo. Which is not even funny because I am not schizophrenic and neither am I. You can write what you know and create ten million books about how you were this close to getting with that person you like, who ends up being a complete ass (check), or you can create worlds, adventures--I could say the sky's the limit, but that's an issue because 1) I'd end up sounding just like my high school guidance counselor, and 2) that dragon you created just flew past the sky, now didn't he?
There's something that's looked down if you keep imagining scenarios by the time you think skinny jeans are cool. What's absurd is that flesh eating zombies and ligers (oh my!) are absolutely ridiculous, but it's socially acceptable to make up on facebook that you've been having a grand old time with your friends every single night. Or at least this is what I tell myself when I'm watching America's Next Top Model Friday night marathons with a pint of ice cream. "Oh, you have the most amazing boyfriend in the world?" I ask the chipper blond on my news feed, "well I have a pet dragon named Alphonso. He has hot pink scales. Beat that."
If having a key imagination is childish, then I should still be offended when people tell me I look like I'm sixteen, but for different reasons. "Please," I'll retaliate, "I'm actually not a day over ten." Ah, to be ten years old and throwing stuffed cats over tree forts again. That is a memory every person should have the privilege of looking back at. It sounds barbaric and the neighbors probably questioned our sanity several times, but the cat game I shared with my brother was actually quite complex. We had a language and political parties. We had a payment system in which the cats got one billion dollars per day. See? At such a young age, I was already becoming acquainted with political manipulation and the American Dream where everyone is filthy stinking rich.
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