Well, look what we have here. Dale Riggs, redneck extraordinaire. MAGA hat proudly tilted on your head, boots on your feet, and probably a cold can of cheap beer clutched in your hand. Confidently strolling around this haphazard mess of trailers and rusty pickups like you're king of the world, aren't you?

Oh boy.

Dale, Dale, Dale.

I hate to burst your little bubble (actually, that's a lie; this part of the job is delightful), but you're not exactly… well, real. Or rather, you're not Dale Riggs, as you've mistakenly believed yourself to be your entire imaginary life. Yep, sorry—clerical error, system glitch, reality malfunction. Take your pick.

It's embarrassing for us, really. Imagine Reality as an office run by a semi-dysfunctional bureaucracy filled with bitter, coffee-sipping agents.

Sometimes (often), mistakes happen. Forms get misfiled, records misaligned, and suddenly we've got you thinking you're Dale: Confederate-flag-waving, xenophobic, homophobic, sexist—ugh, I don’t even want to finish listing your charming attributes. Anyway, bottom line: you're actually Gabriella Morales-Schultzmann, a brilliant, educated, lesbian Latina who—much to everyone's relief—exists at a safe, comfortable distance from Dale's nonsense.

So let's get started, shall we? The sooner we get Gabriella back, the sooner I can erase this headache of paperwork.

Step one: you might feel dizzy.

Oh, did that already happen? Excellent! Means we're on schedule. I know, it's a little disorienting, Dale—or should I say Gabby? You're losing a good two decades of imaginary aging (seriously, you thought you were almost fifty? Ha! You're twenty-five, honey. Still young enough to have dreams that don't involve Monster Truck rallies and light beer).

Oh, and yes—I'm sorry, Dale—but you're Latina. Mexican-American, actually. Half Mexican on your mom's side (Rosa Morales, sweetest woman, I swear), half German-Jewish on your dad's side (hello, Schultzmann surname!). I see you shaking your head, but tough luck—this isn't an optional upgrade, this is reality recalibration.

And speaking of your dad, he was Army Ranger Sergeant David Schultzmann—decorated, courageous, sadly passed when you were sixteen. You always adored wearing his old Army jackets. They made you feel safe, close to him.

Still do, actually. Funny, isn't it, Dale? How real these new-old memories suddenly feel? They're real because they're yours. Gabriella's life was beautiful, complex, real—unlike that tacky red-white-and-bigoted nightmare you imagined living.

Look, Dale—Gabby—whoever you think you are right now, I need you to really try to hear me for a second. Because this is what I keep running up against, and it's like trying to explain a novel to someone who’s only ever read the back cover. Every time I ask you about your life, it’s like… fine, sure, you can give me an answer. You can tell me where you were on Tuesday, what brand of beer you drink, what color your truck is—yeah, okay, that’s a fact, but where’s the story, Dale? What was your dream when you were sixteen? Who’s the person you call when your heart breaks? What’s the song that makes you cry even though you don’t know why? You don’t have those, do you? Because they never happened. There’s nothing underneath, just this patchwork of moments stitched together like a bad sitcom rerun. And I’m telling you—Gabriella’s life? It exists. It’s messy, and beautiful, and full of love and heartbreak and real people. She had a father she worshiped, a wife who holds her at night when she can’t sleep, a baby on the way she’s terrified and excited to meet. And you—what, Dale? You’ve got a hunting trip and some guys at a bar who don’t even know your middle name? C’mon. Even you have to see which one of those lives is real. Which one is deserved."

Step two: Reality needs to emphasize—you're very pregnant, Gabriella.

Relax, breathe. Yes, you're heavily pregnant, sweetie. Seven months along, IVF baby, and surprise—it's a girl! You and your wife Rachel (who, by the way, is Jewish, stunningly gorgeous, and an immigration lawyer kicking ass daily) picked the name Sofia after your abuela. Trust me, your memories with Rachel are infinitely more rewarding than those fake beer-fueled hunting trips with your imaginary buddy Bubba or whatever cliché you conjured.

You're clutching your stomach protectively now, aren't you? Good. Sofia's healthy, growing, and ready to greet her two loving moms. And before you start with whatever confused protest is forming in that newly reshaped head of yours—yes, Gabriella is a lesbian. Like, very lesbian. A 'gold-star' lesbian, as she would proudly remind you—never been tempted, never wanted, never even thought about guys that way. Which makes this whole weird fantasy of yours—the one where women are just props in camo bikinis holding guns next to your truck—all the more ridiculous. That was never her. Never you. Gabriella’s never wanted to be someone’s trophy or conquest—she’s the kind of woman who falls in love with sharp minds and gentle hands, not empty clichés. So whatever made-up life you’ve been stomping around in, thinking that’s how it works? Yeah, no. Not even close.

And by the way, since you insist on making me repeatedly clarify this—yes, you're very lesbian. Always were. A gold-star lesbian, in fact, never once tempted by Dale’s fictional women-as-property fantasies. The idea makes you shudder, doesn't it? Yeah. Me too.

Oh, quick physical updates: Dale's beer gut is now an adorable baby bump. Goodbye greasy hands and cheap beer, hello prenatal vitamins and herbal tea. Your features soften, eyebrows thicker and darker, your long, wavy black hair falling effortlessly around your shoulders. Your warm, honey-brown skin glowing. Gabriella, mi amiga, you are stunning.

Step three: mental cleanup.

I have to warn you, Dale’s toxic thoughts might linger briefly. It's residual; ignore it. Those sexist, racist, and homophobic sentiments? Toss them like the stale beer cans they resemble. Gabriella Morales-Schultzmann isn't just educated (degree in Social Work, honors—University of Texas at Austin, proud Longhorns!), she actively fights against exactly the kind of person Dale pretended to be. Proud Latina, passionate advocate, openly gay—Gabriella, seriously, the contrast with Dale couldn’t be more satisfying if we planned it

(we didn't, obviously. Paperwork, remember?).

Okay, okay, I know you're still slightly confused, Dale—I mean, Gabby. So I'll patiently explain again: Dale never existed. You were never real. You’re the glitch, the mistake, the typo in the cosmic ledger. Gabriella Morales-Schultzmann lived every second, minute, hour of these twenty-five beautiful years. You weren't Dale, ever. Your past, your thoughts—just a false memory. Like a poorly written redneck fever-dream.

Deep breath. It's okay. Honestly, I'm sorry we didn't catch this sooner. You shouldn't have had to spend even a single imaginary moment as Dale, God forbid. Our bad. I'll add a formal apology note to your permanent cosmic file.

Step four: life realignment and final reality integration.

Almost done. Gabriella’s wife Rachel has been anxiously texting you while you're stuck here with me sorting this mess. (Rachel, bless her gorgeous heart, is already researching possible legal ramifications of your brief bout of fictional existence. Lawyers. I mean it is impossible in like a week neither of you will even remember this happened).

Your apartment in San Antonio awaits right outside your bedroom door—cozy, filled with books, plants, and way, WAY too many photos of you two kissing, laughing, and marching at Pride (frankly it is so cute it makes me jealous). Rachel’s been decorating the nursery while you napped (which was interrupted by this existential reality correction, I admit), and your little corgi mix pup (Churro) probably misses you terribly.

You're smiling now. Good. Because Gabby, I have to tell you, you take reality correction far better than most. You're already settling comfortably into your true life, aren't you? I get it—going from imaginary MAGA nightmare to progressive Latina mom-to-be is a massive glow-up. Even though I'm supposed to be neutral, the world needs more Gabbys and less Dales.

Finally, I'm placing Dale's entire fictional existence into the cosmic shredder. Goodbye MAGA hat, Confederate flag nonsense, and all the ignorant rants about "them immigrants" (seriously, Gabby, your wife’s immigration clients have better grammar than Dale ever managed).

Welcome back to reality, Gabriella Morales-Schultzmann. Brilliant, educated, Mexican-American, queer, feminist—and soon-to-be mother. You're stunning, powerful, beloved. Dale who?

Honestly, Gabriella, thanks for being delightful through all this. I’ll miss you—well, not Dale, obviously (so happy when I was able to shut him up) —just you. If every cosmic correction went this smoothly, my blood pressure would thank me.

Now get home to Rachel. Hug her tight. Kiss that bump. Wear your dad’s jacket proudly again.

And congratulations, Gabriella. Reality missed you terribly.

(And please, for the love of all things cosmic, avoid glitching again. I really don't want to explain this another time.)