I am a liar.
I am always lying.
I lie even when I don’t mean to.
I lie so much, I no longer know if what’s coming out of my mouth is the truth, or just another intricate web of dishonesty.
I am not a traditional liar, however. I don’t lie to make myself, or my life more interesting. I don’t lie to be deceitful – well, not exactly anyway.
Here’s a little secret | Anyone who tries to tell you that people want to be surrounded by others who are their own person and original; they are lying to you. Everyone thinks that that’s what they want in a friend, but it’s not. They’re really actually not interested in your complicated and dramatic past, or self. They don’t want to know about how your parent’s divorce affected you in high school. They don’t want to know about your stint in rehab. They don’t want to know about your friend who committed suicide by suffocating themselves with a plastic bag. They don’t actually care because, they don’t want to know complicated people, with a drama-filled life. They just want cookie cutters of themselves for friends, no more – no less.
So, I lie.
I lie to sound like every other basic white girl at this football-obsessed southern university:
I put on that red lipstick for game days. I whiten my teeth daily. I wear the unofficial girls’ uniform here – norts and an oversized tshirt. I straighten my hair, and occasionally even curl it to perfection. I post basic photos to Instagram, and use basic captions with basic locations. I smile and nod. I laugh at all the right moments, and at all the right jokes. I tell everyone life is great.
But, it’s just a front.
I’m lying to sound less interesting. Less wild. Less complicated. Less different.
And yet, I’m not lying.
I’m only telling people exactly what they want to hear.