Performance Reviews for the Imaginary Friends I Let Go: A HR Nightmare of My Own Design

My therapist recently told me to journal about my childhood. Write it all down, she said. Get in touch with younger you, she said. She failed to specify that younger me had a roster. An org chart. A rotating cast of imaginary friends, fictional crushes, and one inflatable chair with a personality so strong I still think about it during quiet moments in the cereal aisle.

So instead of a healthy reflective diary, I have produced this: formal performance reviews for every imaginary associate I ever onboarded and eventually let go. HR has not been contacted. HR is me. Let's begin.

Sir Reginald Fluffington, Imaginary Badger (1994–1997)

Rating: ★★★★☆

Sir Reginald was my first hire and, frankly, my best. A badger in a tiny waistcoat who communicated exclusively in what I can only describe as "posh grunts," he accompanied me to every dentist appointment from ages four to seven. He did not judge me for crying in the parking lot of a Blockbuster, which is more than I can say for most people currently in my life.

Why did I let him go? I turned eight and decided imaginary friends were "for babies," which is the kind of cold corporate restructuring only a child can execute. Sir Reginald did not fight it. He simply tipped his tiny hat and dissolved into the ether, presumably with a very dignified grunt.

I owe him an apology. And possibly back pay.

The Scholastic Book Fair Boyfriend (1998, One Semester)

Rating: ★★★☆☆

Every kid who grew up reading YA in the '90s had one: the fictional crush from a paperback with an embossed cover. Mine was a brooding boy wizard — no, not that one, a different one, from a series so obscure I refuse to name it in case someone corrects me — who had a scar, a secret, and the emotional availability of a wet paper bag.

He was a terrible partner. He never texted back, mostly because texting didn't exist and also because he was ink. But he taught me my first lesson in red flags: if a boy's entire personality is a mystery involving a locked tower, run.

I did not run. I finished the trilogy. Twice.

Gerald, the Inflatable Chair (2001–2003, Foul Play Suspected)

Rating: ☆☆☆☆☆ (pending investigation)

Now we enter difficult territory.

Gerald was not imaginary in the traditional sense. Gerald was a bright orange inflatable armchair from a mall kiosk, and I loved him with the fierce, unhinged devotion only a ten-year-old can muster. I named him. I told him things. I read him my diary, which in retrospect was a massive breach of my own security protocols.

Then, one Tuesday, Gerald deflated.

My parents said he "just lost air." I have never believed this. I believe Gerald heard something in that diary he could not live with, and he chose to go. Ghosted by furniture. There is no closure protocol for that. There is no Yelp category for that. There is only this review, and the void.

Gerald, if you're out there: I'm sorry about the diary entry from March. You deserved to know, but not like that.

The Backup Squad (Various, Never Fully Onboarded)

Rating: ★★☆☆☆

Like any manager, I kept a bench of candidates who never quite made the starting lineup: an imaginary dog named Pizza who existed for roughly eleven minutes, a ghost butler named Chad who was honestly too chill to be useful, and a talking sandwich that I cut from consideration the moment I realized the concept was making me hungry during math class.

The Backup Squad's legacy is complicated. They represent potential unrealized. They also represent that I once almost made a talking sandwich my best friend, which my therapist and I are now "exploring."

What the Journaling Taught Me

Here's the thing nobody tells you about firing your entire childhood support staff: you never hold exit interviews. Kids don't do severance. One day Sir Reginald is accompanying you to a booster shot, and the next he's been replaced by a Walkman and a vague sense of shame, and nobody marks the occasion.

So this is the occasion. This is the exit interview, the reference letter, the Glassdoor review left at 2 a.m. by an adult who owns a 401(k) but still occasionally says "goodnight" to a room before turning off the light.

My therapist says this shows "real emotional growth." She also said that with a slightly concerned expression, which I've chosen to interpret as awe.

Anyway. Five stars to all of them. Even Gerald. Especially Gerald.