The first lie that I remember telling was horrible in its formation, full of holes it was; I didn't yet know the great art of lying. I stood, shaking in front of my step-father, as he had his belt in hand. He asked me if I had ruined the new garage door by scratching initials into it. These initials just so happened to be the initials of our neighbor Lisa. Well, little me, not knowing any better, I said "no, I don't know her last name, I know her first name and middle name." Now when I think back to the look he gave me, I can recognize it as the look of utter disbelief and a dash of confusion. I can remember him staring at me, and to my mother, and back to me. He walked outside, sanded the initials away and repainted over where they were. My mom had the same look of disbelief on her face, almost as if she had expected that my dad had trained me better. Back then, a bad lie saved me from a spanking, but earned me some stern glances at the dinner table.
Another lie I remember was bringing my first "F" home on a freshly printed report card. The "A"s weren't important, it was that "F" that would get me grounded. I sat at the kitchen table as my dad opened it up and ready my grades aloud to me, "Math, A, Science, A, History, A, Gym, A, Music, F... How can you get an 'F' in Music? How can you do that?" Well, "I stepped on her (the teacher's) foot and she's failing me now." It sounded good at the time, as I hadn't learned to rehearse this sort of thing quite yet. It turns out that that lie was pretty sufficient, or at least it was while dad was still in his barely awake sleepy stupor state. An hour later he saw the report card again and asked me the same question, and I responded the same way as I had before. This time around he wasn't tired any more, and he knew that my tiny foot and unimpressive body-weight could not possibly warrant a failing grade. He called the teacher, and found out that my 'F' was indeed the result of my foot, and her shin. I had kicked the teacher and lied about it. The 'F' was grounds enough for a grounding, but the fact that I had kicked her had landed me a month grounding, without desserts after dinner. My world was crushed.
I started practicing, I started planning, I started lying like a trained amateur, I was no longer a novice to the game of deception. I'll admit, I still wasn't the greatest, not even as good as my brother. I studied the way he lied; I studied the way he talked and stood. I studied the way his voice changed when he wanted emotion. To me, my brother could lie to a police officer, standing next to a burned down house, matches in hand. That boy had skills. My dad was no match for him. Although, for all his lying expertise, he still couldn't dodge the "F" bullet.
High-school, if not anywhere else, is the training grounds of the professional liar. The reason for this is that the student is always being questioned, "Where is your homework?, Why are you late? Why did you skip class yesterday?" The lies themselves range from the simple, "I left it in my dad's car when I got dropped off this morning; I can bring it tomorrow." to the bold " I wasn't here yesterday because my mom is in the hospital again this week." Depending on the gullibility of the teacher, and his/her patience, either of these lies might be passable, or they might get you a hot seat in detention.
Now I've become so good at lying that I can fool myself into thinking it's the truth, or maybe everything I say is true. Maybe I no longer need to lie, because I have nothing to hide. Do you have the nerve to tell the truth?
Another lie I remember was bringing my first "F" home on a freshly printed report card. The "A"s weren't important, it was that "F" that would get me grounded. I sat at the kitchen table as my dad opened it up and ready my grades aloud to me, "Math, A, Science, A, History, A, Gym, A, Music, F... How can you get an 'F' in Music? How can you do that?" Well, "I stepped on her (the teacher's) foot and she's failing me now." It sounded good at the time, as I hadn't learned to rehearse this sort of thing quite yet. It turns out that that lie was pretty sufficient, or at least it was while dad was still in his barely awake sleepy stupor state. An hour later he saw the report card again and asked me the same question, and I responded the same way as I had before. This time around he wasn't tired any more, and he knew that my tiny foot and unimpressive body-weight could not possibly warrant a failing grade. He called the teacher, and found out that my 'F' was indeed the result of my foot, and her shin. I had kicked the teacher and lied about it. The 'F' was grounds enough for a grounding, but the fact that I had kicked her had landed me a month grounding, without desserts after dinner. My world was crushed.
I started practicing, I started planning, I started lying like a trained amateur, I was no longer a novice to the game of deception. I'll admit, I still wasn't the greatest, not even as good as my brother. I studied the way he lied; I studied the way he talked and stood. I studied the way his voice changed when he wanted emotion. To me, my brother could lie to a police officer, standing next to a burned down house, matches in hand. That boy had skills. My dad was no match for him. Although, for all his lying expertise, he still couldn't dodge the "F" bullet.
High-school, if not anywhere else, is the training grounds of the professional liar. The reason for this is that the student is always being questioned, "Where is your homework?, Why are you late? Why did you skip class yesterday?" The lies themselves range from the simple, "I left it in my dad's car when I got dropped off this morning; I can bring it tomorrow." to the bold " I wasn't here yesterday because my mom is in the hospital again this week." Depending on the gullibility of the teacher, and his/her patience, either of these lies might be passable, or they might get you a hot seat in detention.
Now I've become so good at lying that I can fool myself into thinking it's the truth, or maybe everything I say is true. Maybe I no longer need to lie, because I have nothing to hide. Do you have the nerve to tell the truth?
1 comment:
I know the art of lying...I also know how to tell the truth and choose to do so. I used permanent marker on my Uncle's garage door once, right in front of my cousin. It was symbols from math class, I think I was about 7 or 8. Even then, I told the truth as I hung my head, because even though your first instinct is to cover your ass and lie, I knew I'd get caught, even if my cousin didn't witness.
Now, I'm maturing, I've fallen in love quite hard and I see no reason in lying. Even if it hurts sometimes. I see it as I'm teaching people how I would like to be treated, this being the fact that I want to be told the truth no matter what.
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