Once again I am whiling away the hours trying to avoid the central paradox of my existence: that I am a creation of my own imagination. Instead I am focusing on my latest composition, my Fantasia for Transvibramat and Gvidzdvelvian orchestra, opus 1.465 x 10^28. Now that I'm no longer limited to the realm of physical reality, I can write music
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...but not quite.
Men and women, you say? In whose body?
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In my body, of course. Remember, this was back when I had one *sigh*. It doesn't matter. Ever since the Doctor forced me to confront the facts of my existence, I've been unable to take pleasure in anything. I am constantly reminded it is only illusory. Anyone have a body in decent condition they want to get rid of?
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Speaking of which, that's not much of an imaginary self you've imagined yourself.
Look at the TARDIS. Or the Hamstertardis. Or that weird librarian woman in her new please-fuck-me body. At least they're trying...
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