I'd write a description of myself. Tell you how great my life has been and still is. I'd write poems about my great loves and passions, send you letters about my accomplishments. Show you my doodles about us, and even share my deepest secrets. But in the end, I'll go back to my life, where there aren't any accomplishments, or passions, or even secrets. And you'll go back to yours; jealous of my perfectly plastic life.