When I was a little kid, I was a pathological liar. It was almost like I had a disease. For some reason, I could not stop lying. Every afternoon, when school let out, I would climb into my mother’s car and begin to tell her more of my creative fibs. As of recently, however, it is seldom that I lie. Apparently, I have become much too blunt of a person to hide my true sentiments. Go figure. Regardless of this, I still do lie. I am only human after all, as far I as I know.
The last lie that I have told, that I can actually remember, was when my friend asked me if I was mad at her, and I said no. What she had done to cause me to be mad at her was an act that was certainly forgivable, but only forgivable in time. I had still been in shock over what had happened and was still surprised that it had even occurred at all. I was hurt and angry and I wasn’t quite sure how to move on in our friendship. I wasn’t quite sure I wanted us to have a friendship anymore. So when she asked if I was mad at her, I lied. I told her that everything was fine and not to worry.
Part of me suspected that she just didn’t want to deal with the fact that someone on the planet Earth had a reason to dislike her, while another part of me suggested that she did not and could not understand why I would be mad in the first place. If I had, in fact, confessed that I was still mad at her, that might have just lead to even more conflict, which is what I was trying to avoid. I did not want to have to remember what had happened between us by having a heated argument about why I could not forgive her at the present time. It seemed hideously pointless to tell her the truth when she most certainly did not want the truth, but the answer that would reassure her that everything was alright. So, in effect, I gave her what she wanted. I gave her a lie.