This had to be done by someone, somewhere. The narrator in Fight Club did it, he felt the bliss. Now I had to do it. Create an alter-ego, no wait; I had to create a deflated version of my own ego. And I have to love it. Yes. Don’t tell me that you were never cheated by girls, don’t tell me that you never had a heart break. Don’t tell me that you didn’t want to see another girl in your life. Don’t tell me because I understand you. But the problem is, once you start liking a girl, you cannot leave her. Once you start hating a girl, you cannot stop yourself from liking one. This cycle continues, and you still stay the same, hopeless. You get her a BlackBerry she asks for a Vertu, you get a Vertu she asks for a Droid, you get her everything but she still says you don’t understand her. And when you do, she says you’re too sensitive. Either way it’s like a gun pointed towards you, whatever you do, the trigger is pulled. I’ve decided that I’ve had enough of this. No more cajoling, I can’t cry anymore, now I want to make people cry. I wanted a girl, as beautiful as a bed of roses, I wanted a girl who’ll smile for me and nod her head in innocence. I wanted a girl who’ll listen to me and love me the way I am. I wanted a girl and I couldn’t find her. I wanted a girl and now I’m creating her. Hello, meet N. N for Natalie, Natasha, Natalia and any other name of a Russian porno actress you can remember. That’s for you, N has a beautiful name. N looks the way you want her to,   N looks the way I want her to. From a sari to a two piece, in the blink of my eye. So, meet N, she’s a _______ at ________. She does whatever you want her to do. Meet N, my new girlfriend, touch her if you can, like her if you can. Try batting it for her, try attracting her. Before you try to do anything with her, please bear in mind that you’re going to lose. She’s all mine, yes, I’m shouting this, the world’s perfect girl is mine and no one can take her away from me. She’s born because of me, and she’ll die with me. She’ll love my poems; she’ll love my crass jokes and fried eggs. She’ll love my sudden bursts of anger. She’ll love my music, she will love, love, love fucking me. Pun intended.
                                                      So here’s N, I can’t exactly see her, but I can feel her around, the pep’s back in my heart, and she’s wafting through the wind. I don’t need my friends anymore; I don’t need anyone to talk to. I just need her; she follows me wherever I go. And she doesn’t get bored. Is this a psychological imbalance? Am I going mad? Maybe, it’s a two way knife, either you can go out with a girl and go mad or you go mad without going out. So, I’m the one who’s perfect, I’m going out with a girl at the same time I’m not going with one, so this kind of negates the imbalance. Total zero. So, where did I first meet her? On the local train, after another beautiful girl walked passed me ignoring the plastered smirk on my face. I looked across the coach and found N’s face fluttering in the glass. I didn’t see her, but I wanted to, so I saw her. I went over the seat beside the glass, she was shivering, she said it’s cold, Her whitish cheeks turned pink, her lips were dry and she was shivering. I gave me coat to her. She felt happy, she said she liked it and gave me her hand. Ah! The touch, we got down at the next station. She said she forgot her luggage, I said I left my coat. In fact, I left them both. We walked down to my place; she said that she’d kiss me. I said that I had virgin lips, she said that she had them too, and she winked.  My conscience didn’t let our meet go on further, she vanished. I ended up kissing the fake Pirelli on my bed room wall. It was Sophia Loren. I puked. I thought about it all night. A real girl failed to make any sense to me. Did I really need one? The universal rule of one whom you love doesn’t love you back applied almost everywhere. I could love N and make her love me back. I could defy nature.  That sounded good. So, the next day, I saw N in the couch reading the newspaper. I asked her to read the news for me. I didn’t hear it, but I did. If the world isn't in the way I like it to be, I’ll imagine the world in the way I'd like it to be. Led Zeppelin becomes the president of America, Kubrick reincarnates and talks about his vision of afterlife, atomic explosion wipes out half of Latin America; my face on the front-page, with N. Celebrity couple gets married in style. I told my boss that I got married. I called up dad and I told him that I have a better wife than him. I called up my ‘exes’ and told them about her. I wanted revenge. Or do I really want revenge? What am I getting from all this? Some mental satisfaction and ego boosting? Yes. But what am I losing? A girl! A real fucking girl! I’ve lived a fourth of my lifespan and I’m giving up on a trivial thing! The world is full of opportunities; since I’m straight I have 3.5 billion other opportunities. Come think of it, how can a person be depressed about one girl in 3.5 billion other girls? Isn’t too vague? And come to think of it, I don’t know whether I’m bi-sexual or not, that makes the probability shrink even further, one in seven billion. So does this whole imaginary girl thing work out? For all I know, my testicles might rot off from tomorrow, I might slip into a coma in sleep, or get crushed by a speeding lorry. I might be on my deathbed, with one single last wish in my mind, a real girl. What’ll I do then? Probably, I should reserve this beautiful darling N for my deathbed and save all my fantasies for then. But now, I should move on. I, Philip E. Philip, should move on. How can a person expect someone to understand you completely if you don't understand yourself first? Well, I have partly known myself. Do you know yourself? Or do you think you do?  Stop reading this and go fuck yourself. Or others, I don’t really care.