Yesterday, I had a good day. I got along with a person, and found out from that person that the woman I like isn’t going out with the person I thought she was going out with.

So I tried to be positive. I talked about those things, instead of talking about what I could have talked about, which was everything else that happened during the rest of the day. For example, I could have talked about how I had what felt like a ten minute stammering fit when my boss surprised me with a question in a crowded meeting. I wound up looking like I didn’t know what I’m talking about, even though I knew the answer to the question and could have explained it easily if I hadn’t been ambushed.

And I didn’t talk — because I had had a good day — about how I nodded to my neighbor as I was going to my mailbox and she was coming back from it, and not only did she not nod back, but she looked down as if she hadn’t noticed me nodding.

And so, because I talked about how two good things happened to me yesterday (how crazy is that, that two whole good things might happen to a single person in one day?!?!) more people comment than have ever commented before on this blog, saying, with absolute conviction, because they’re crimefighters who detect fake people for a living I guess, that I am not real.

Fine. I’m not real then. This is actually a relief, because my life sucks a little bit more than a real person’s should, and this gives my life (or what I used to think was my life, but is apparently not a life at all) considerably more clarity.

Now that I am not real, I think it will be much easier for me to sleep at night. What do I have to lose sleep over, really? Nothing! Because I don’t really exist!

Also, I can stop worrying about whether there would even be a funeral if I died and how many people would attend. I used to think there would probably be my sister and her family, maybe my brother because that would give him "closure" (even though he deserves the opposite of closure, whatever that is), and some assigned representative from work. But now I realize that either whoever the godlike figure is that’s writing my fictional existence would either have a whole bunch of people attend my funeral, or none whatsoever, depending on whichever he thought was more dramatic. Regardless, I can stop thinking about that. Excellent.

And best of all, I can stop writing this stupid blog, where people spend more time questioning whether I exist than at least trying to be civil. Whoever invented me can start writing it, because I’m sick of it.

Oh, and while you’re at it, Mr. / Ms. Writing of a Fictional Character Person, could you do me one fucking favor and write me into bed with someone? Thanks.

Really, the only thing that’s sad about being non-existent is that I won’t ever get to see Peter Jackson’s production of The Hobbit.

Isolation Score: Doesn’t matter, because I am not real.

(By the way, if I were real, I would have gone and said "Hi" to Jane today, without incident. But that is just too unfuckingbelievable for it to have happened to a real person, so I guess that’s further proof that I am not real.)