(diaryland) February 22, 2013 - 4:46 p.m.

Imaginary Friend: February

I do not know what your problem was.

Whenever we played My Little Ponies, you would not let me plait their tails.

I owned most of the Ponies, anyway. Why couldn't I plait my own fuckin' Pony's hair?

Jesus, it still makes me rile up. I was allowed to tie little capes and bows and shit onto them. You put lipstick on my Baby Morning Glory, something I can still detect as a distinct pink flush on its furiously scrubbed face. What's the difference, man? Was it a power thing? A fear of plaits? I've heard about a whole family of button-phobics, except for the mum. She had to sew zips onto everything. Looking back, though, I think you were just trying to see where my boundaries were.

You were hard to hang out with. However, you conveniently lived next door.

I now have this confused, all-blown-out-of-proportion rage at the pit of my stomach every time I find the bag of Ponies I've kept for all those years. I should just throw it out, but I can't. After our last big fight near the end of Grade 4, I plaited all their damn silky tails and left them like that, chuckling inwardly with a hollow sense of satisfaction. I imagined what you'd say if you ever found out from a friend of a friend of a friend. I never told anyone, so I've got no idea how word of this cunning revenge could have gotten out. It always sounded crushingly pathetic every time I started to articulate the Event to Sophie, who was supposed to be the first station along the Grade 4T grapevine.

The bag went to the back of the wardrobe. When I pulled them out a few years later, they were all crimped like the hair in my sister's 1988 school photo, permanently.

I bet your Skydancer and your Wind Whistler's tails are still pristine and silky straight.

Well, fuck you.