Why I Have More Imaginary Friends In My 20s Than I Did As A Kid

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My sister is 16. She thinks that because she’s in high school and just about to get her permit, she knows a thing or two about what it means to be a human. In my eyes, she’s not an actual human until she's taken LSD, had a lesbian thought and given a blowjob for something other than love.

And the fact that she’s not a human is why I don’t take offense when she tells me it’s weird that I don’t have any friends. She knows nothing about the adult world and human interactions.

To her disbelief, I do have friends. I have a few really good friends.

One of them is Sarah. She’s 24, a liberal and very dependable. She went to Smith and is really into Bukowski. My other friend is Ruth. She’s a bit of an alcoholic, but she tells it like it is. She's also a great wingwoman. And then there’s Tibs. Tibs also likes to party. She's harsh but hilarious (think: Amy Schumer).

Those are my friends. They never judge. They never fight, and they never make me question my leather purchases. They’re supportive, kind and always there when I need them.

I didn't used to have friends like this. Honestly, I feel like I’ve really grown into my own. I’ve finally met a group of women who I can just be myself around. We go out to brunch and discuss literature. We watch foreign films and romantic comedies. We sometimes even splurge on shopping trips to Whole Foods.

And, yes... they’re completely and utterly imaginary. So don’t you dare ruin this for me.

At 24, I’ve already come to the sad conclusion that most people are morons. There are few people whose opinions I actually value, and everyone else's are a waste of my time.

To be completely honest, I feel like no one actually wants to hear what anyone has to say, so let's just cut the bullsh*t and talk to ourselves -- our very own imaginary friends.

Imaginary friends give me more love than my "friends” on social media.

I have 800-something friends on Facebook, but not one of them are going to comment on my status about Virginia Woolf. I just know it. So instead of reaching out to the masses, I’d rather just talk to the one voice inside my head.

Besides, I know why no one comments -- they’re jealous.

Imaginary friends seem way more acceptable than they did when I was four.

I dare you to meet a Millennial without some type of disorder or prescription medication. Some of the most brilliant and successful men and women of our generation have a physical or mental disability.

Thankfully, society is now more accepting of people who are different.

So saying that I like hanging out with my imaginary friends doesn't cause a stir these days. Saying I want to make new friends in my 20s, however, really puts some people off.

Imaginary friends are easier to drink with.

Now it's just like having a tea party in your room -- except instead of chamomile tea, it's whiskey (and a few other substances).

If you're drinking with your imaginary friends, you don't need to drag your girlfriend home, sleep on the couch if she's getting lucky or worry about what you did or didn't say about her newly divorced dad. You don't have to tiptoe around the room the next morning because she's sleeping until noon.

Imaginary friends don’t cancel plans.

I may not be in my 30s yet, but I'm really just done with the whole active thing. I want my weekends to be low-key and, preferably, in front of a television.

I don't want to take the subway, walk to a bar in the rain or spend money on people I wish I could get away from. The beauty of my new friends is I never have to cancel my plans with them.

I’m not going to see what my imaginary friends did without me on Instagram.

Even if I think it's lame, it still hurts to see your look-at-us-apple-picking posts.

Imaginary friends are the only people who listen.

It’s common knowledge that people don’t listen. Instead, they're waiting for their turn to speak. We’re never really conversing. We're just talking at empty, soulless (if they’re voting for Donald Trump) bodies.

So rather than sit through another fake friend’s soliloquy about her fat thighs, only to have her pretend to listen to my problems, I’d rather just talk at a blank wall. Until Sarah arrives, that is.