WARNING: The following is extreme angst. If this is not your cup of tea, don't read because, well- you won't like it.

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Mark, the following years of your life never happened. Your friends were actors; The situations were fake; everything was fake. A joke, one large, huge, cruel, cruel joke.

Mimi never was addicted to drugs. Her thin mangled form was merely a figment of your imagination, brought on by makeup and corsets and other tricks of the trade you have grown to know well. Her tears were fake, her withdrawals were staged, her pain was not real.

Angel never died. She was really a 'he', after all. She never loved Collins, and your dreams of true love existing- between anyone - were documented and laughed at by knowing fans. Her passion was plastic, her life was a trait, created by an actor. Her death was feigned, and so were the tears of every member of your "family", who really wasn't your family anyway, seeing they never really loved you anyway.

Maureen's not even a lesbian. In fact, she's not even Maureen. She's not alive, or perky or happy, and she's not a drama queen. She's not everything you ever loved about her, or anything you've ever hated about her.

Joanne isn't Mrs. Ivy League. She's not nervous, or somewhat insecure, or punctual. She isn't overprotective, she's not gifted, she's an actress.

Collin's isn't witty or humorous. Without Angel, he doesn't have that tragic sort of wisdom and that pensive sort of loneliness that only you seem to notice. Collins coming to the loft after a hard day with that sort of watery look around his reddened eyes and just wanting to pretend that things would be the same.

Roger never left you alone. The blaring flatline never existed. The cold pale appearance of his skin was created by makeup and makeup alone, his weird eerie whispers about promises that he wanted you to keep were scripted. His weak grip around your wrist, as if commanding your losing attention, was a ploy. The Roger, the Roger that never shed tears, crying in his death bed, was an act.

The tender love, and pain never existed, it was all a joke. It rouses the question, plain and clear: Mark, Was it better to have lost love or to have never loved at all?

The magic was fake. It all was a joke. A cruel joke.

Happy April Fool's Day, Mark.