Nobody lies like I do, and every day, I prove it. Truly! Beyond the white lies told to others, I deceive myself daily—and it's a goddamn chore. A lot of those fictionalizations are too private to discuss, even in blog-confessional format. Many of the rest of my dishonesties refer to inquiries by friends, coworkers, and family, on my health: how I'm feeling, how much pain I'm in, do I need a break, etc.
Nah—all good!
Now hear the internal monologue:
"Holy flurking schmidt, it hurts and I need to just take a seat right here, on the floor, amidst the customers. I mean, if that'd be okay. I'll pick up dropped lettuce leaves while down here and nope, no I will not because ow."
But what has bitching and whining ever gotten anyone? Other than smacked across the teeth? Repeatedly? That's all I need—to add to the list. "Hey, Doc. Here to treat the lupus. And the kidney stones. Oh yeah—and these five bleeding, gaping holes in my smile."
"And the knives up in the kitchen are all too dull to smile."
That Ryan Adams kid knows a thing or two about misery. Which makes me think of the medical terminology of old: "I got a miz'ry in mah back achin' sumthin' awful!"
Apparently, the miserable were also Appalachian. This makes sense.
Okay, perhaps they were French. Pussies.
What?
Company hates misery, and the individual hates having to hold back the truth about misery to company. Or something. It's a fact, whatever it is, and I’ve more than proven it such over my lifetime. It only makes sense: you lie about pain to prevent pain.
Yet, in doing so, create that much more.
Then again, necessity is the mother of...
What's that word again?
Never mind. I'll just make one up.
*****
Like me, you are also a liar—and that is just fine. In fact, better than; it's a gorgeous necessity and a gleaming reflection on you; of you. I wish more people understood the weight of integrity, in addition to the value of a lie. Yes, dishonesty and morality, holding onto each other for dear life—because they are dear for life. Holding on as colleagues, as friends, as symbiotic parasites.
One day, just before the end, smiling kitchen knives will slice open our mouths and we'll collectively drop our mendacious jaws, spewing bloody truth, all that previously withheld sanguineous intelligence, all at once.
And the world will crack, splinter, and explode into billions of the finest, purest shards of pain, hurtling amongst supernovas that, I know quite well, do not care if I stay in hell, every blade cutting everyone with the magnificent agony of realization; of recognizing yourself in your enemy…in one small sliver of glass.
Then, you will meld.
Then, and only then, combustion.
Then, and only then, will our suffocating fires inhale and backdraft our untruths, expel like hell their sicknesses, their treasons, their swallowed sorrows, that they may return to their homes: embedded in our pores.
Then, and only then...the settling of stardust.
All it takes is a flowering of violence and will.
All it takes are some guns, roses, and just a little...
Perseverance.
And a helluva lotta lies.
