42 Weeks

That's how long he spent in an imaginary world between the time he was supposed to get laid, and the time he actually did.

I should probably explain. It was just another Saturday night, and he was all revved up with no place to go. Well, there were actually lots of places he could have gone, and he fully intended to find the one that would lead to the ultimate act of moving on with his life. But, as it turned out, he wasn't quite ready.

So all dressed up with any number of places to go, he stayed home and fell into a land of make-believe, and for ten months or so, fancied himself to be on some sort of magical mystery tour across the universe to the centre of his soul. Of course, it was all just an illusion, but it was one that served him well at the time, his reality having been way too depressing to give any more than the absolute minimum of attention to.

As escapism goes, it was arguably less damaging in both the long and short run than the substance abuse he had been flirting with, and from which his imaginary world almost certainly saved him. As he had liked to say, the Universe gives us what we need when we are ready for it, or summat™. And thus, after most of a year immersed in such clichéd pseudo-philosophical wisdom and other prophecies, he was ready to get laid.

But that's another story...