Whatever I write tonight is going to sad, because that’s how I feel tonight, sad. If you can’t abide sad, skip to the next entry.
Whatever I write tonight is going to sad, because that’s how I feel tonight, sad. If you can’t abide sad, skip to the next entry.
Yesterday I thought of keeping track of my lies for a proscribed period – say, a week – and writing them down. Or not writing them down necessarily, since this would be a bitch, but counting them.
This reminds me. Many years ago I went on a long bike trip. A very long bike trip. And on this bike trip I kept track of how many flats I had. I had 17 flats plus two blown tires. When I got back, people would ask about my trip, and I found that this fact more than any other communicated what it was like: it was like 17 flats and two blown tires.
Today I had a 26-lie day.
Actually, I made that up; I don’t really know how many lies there were.
Recently I had another lie-related idea: a year of the truth and nothing but. Without question this year would transform my life.
From an email I sent tonight to a dear friend: “The worst thing about this project is that though my topic is lies, there are so many things I cannot ever say, nor ever would. And of course these are the things that matter most.”
A man signs a shovel and so he digs.
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