Dear Mr. God
I figure I do badly with the truth, so I’ll just lie.
Did you do what you were supposed to do today?
Yes.
Did you eat breakfast?
Yes, I did, I had a slice of bread with ham and pepper and some olives.
Needless to say those olives were a part of my oversized martini, and the slice of bread was a tiny flake of potato chip spiced with salt, pepper and garlic. That’s not even lying. That’s just sugar coating the truth. Eating that would make me taste like pepper and smell like garlic if anyone were to kiss me or smell my breath. Not that anyone does that. A lot.
In the beginning I felt like a thirteen year old boy skipping school every day to hang out with his friends watching porn or reading magazines. I still do. It doesn’t go away. You just learn to suppress it. Stuff it far away at the back of your head, making sure it stays there by drinking, talking non-stop about trivialities pretending to know everything and everyone, laughing at the craziest places making everyone think you’re a little weird, but not weird enough to make them look directly at you. It’s amazing how much people actually believe. How easy it is to impress them. Look serious, sound serious, talk with a secure voice and solid, but calm, hand motions and they believe you. You can almost say whatever you want.
It’s not hard once you get used to it. The lying. Little things, here and there. After five glasses of wine and a bit of reflection I found that it’s a result of constantly lowering my own expectations, never really succeeding because, believe it or not; I’m a perfectionist. Why lower your expectations, one might wonder. Well, when you for some reason end up doing nothing of what you have planned, just because it seems too much, too heavy, too overwhelming at the moment, you don’t really have a choice. You would ultimately end up hating yourself. Not that lying really prevents anything in that area. Not when you don’t even succeed in making it easier to succeed. Another blow. Right there.
You can say it’s a self-preservation thing. You lie to get people off your back, because carrying their disappointment as well as your own is more than you are able to handle. I don’t know if I would bet any money on one being harder than the other, though. Carrying the disappointment or knowing that you’re a liar. A plain, simple liar. How does that nursery rhyme go again? The one, who whispers, lies. The one, who lies, steals. The one, who steals, goes to jail. The one who goes to jail gets ill. The one, who gets ill, dies. Not such a bright future, really, if you think about it. But then again we’ll all die eventually.
I don’t do well with truth, so I’ll lie.
I fall for my own lies, my own cons, my own frauds.
And I think I might be in trouble.
Just wanted you to know.
Yours sincerely
- O