When I was Sally’s age, I used to lie . . . a lot. I’m sure it had something to do with growing up in a complicated family of world class embellishers and accidentally pulling the short straw on a weird ass mid-90s, midwestern divorce (lions and tigers and gay dads – oh my). At first, my lies were usually just a mild stretch of the truth, but, as time went on, they started to become more and more frequent and, unfortunately, more and more ridiculous. I stopped lying cold turkey after I tried (and failed) to convince my best friend that Alex, the neighbor boy I had the craziest most massive crush on, had just:
a) serenaded me
b) with his guitar
c) outside my window
. . . naked.
I mean, really. What was I thinking? Alex didn’t even own a guitar.
PS – I haven’t lied like this in over 12 years.
PPS – Alex is the one wearing a talking hat.