This conversation lead me to tell my co-worker a little more about me.
When I was little I did in fact have an imaginary friend. His name was Casper.
That's right. As in:
So I'd play a lot outside of my grandparents house with Casper. We'd make mud pies and pick flowers. We'd jump through the sprinklers, we'd lay in the hammock. Then one day things went bad.
I don't actually know what it was that set me off. Something happened though. Something made me snap.
All I recall is stabbing Casper to death with a stick outside. Then I remember my grandparents finding me on my hands and knees behind an azalea bush digging a hole to bury him in.
It's strange how everyone I tell that to seems to think that there may be something wrong with me.