I used to have this great girlfriend. She was always there for me. She’d laugh at all my jokes. And the sex was, well, amazing. But then things started to go sour.
We’d get into these horrible shouting matches over the dumbest things. She’d tell me that my family was conspiring against me and that there were cameras hidden in the walls. And I’d tell her she was full of shit and that the only person conspiring against me was the man in the plaid suit, and maybe the transsexual cashier at the Rite Aid.
Still, I loved her, and we decided that no matter what, we were going to make the relationship work. And we did. Until my doctor prescribed these special orange pills for me. My girlfriend, Imogene, didn’t want me to take them. But I didn’t have a choice. It was either take the pills or spend a few months in the hospital.
So I took the medication. And wouldn’t you know it, the next morning, Imogene was gone. I mean, everything of hers was gone, aside from a bottle of perfume I bought for her and some very tiny soaps in the shower.
I still think about Imogene sometimes. But whenever I mention her to my family or friends, they just give me this funny look. I mean, sure she was difficult at times, but she was an important part of my life. And I don’t care what anyone else says about her, I’ve never met a sweeter, gentler, or more down-to-earth, one-inch-high woman in my life. Imogene, I miss you.
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