Conditional Reality

In retirement, Barbie spent her days chain smoking unfiltered Camels and watching soap operas. She understood the characters and their problems. Honey, she'd say to the TV, dump the dickless bastard. You can do better. Once, as she walked to her limousine to go shopping, some of her local fans surrounded her, bounced up and down, and screamed like teenage girls at a Beatles concert. Barbie's limo driver waited for her to finish signing autographs; then he handed her a tissue which she used to wipe away her imaginary Barbie tears. Thanks Ken, she sniffled, you glorious, hopeless, fucked-up wonder.