I cried myself to sleep last night, thinking of the way things could have been:
Me happily leaving a job where I was not appreciated to work for an internet startup in the hayday of the dot com era. I laugh with my coworkers, as I complete my day to day tasks on time, with no mention of an imaginary assistant.
My boss, Mr. Johnson I call him affectionately, tells me how much he likes my consistent and monochromic, if not receding, hair and I smile. "That Mr. Johnson," I think to myself, "He is so nice."
Later that day, Mr. Johnson mistakes John Lawton for me, and we have a giggle when he realizes that he has made this ages old mistake.
After work, as I walk to the subway with Mr. Johnson, a common New York City Ruffian leaps from the shadows and tries to kick Mr. Johnson in the balls. Without hesitation, I leap in the path of the ball busting blow and take one for our Matt Johnson.