If our fantasies, mundane or extraordinary as they may be, were personified and brought to life... wouldn't they find us boring? Wouldn't they be aching to get up and leave, free from the constraints of our modest minds?
Or perhaps we're perfectly fine. Maybe the flaws in our fantasies are merely a product of our own insecurities and failed experiences. Little things that have latched onto our conscience for decades. Like a very big, specific mosquito that bit you 40 years ago and scarred you for life.
Either way, a fantasy broken beyond repair.