But You Only Tell Me Lies

I don’t know how old I was when I turned into a chronic liar. I have new theories about it all the time. Maybe I didn’t get enough attention as a child. Maybe telling the truth always meant a beating. Maybe I was a shithead pipsqueak who wanted people to like him. I can’t actually remember. My memory’s all overlaid with these newer ideas.

It starts in the morning with the answer to ‘How are you doing?’ ‘Good,’ I say. ‘I’m doing good.’

And it goes on throughout the day. ‘I’m not really hungry,’ when I don’t have any money. ‘Yeah, I went there four years ago. Summer. Met this lovely lady who … er …’ even though four years ago, in summer, I was a loner going through a bit of a breakdown. ‘You know I read somewhere that that’s not really good for you. Does things to your liver.’ ‘I learned it back when I was a kid. Forgot, though. Too much stuff happened in between.’

And on till the end of the day. ‘It was a good day, sweetheart. How about you? Yeah, I wanna hear.’