There is no plot to this story. There is no climax, no theme, nothing included that my English teacher told me is vital to making a story work. So maybe this story won’t work. There is no way to tell. Not even the elusive, intriguing Magic 8 Ball can say. Maybe I better not tell you yet. Ask me again later. Maybe I should concentrate harder. Right now the reply is hazy, but my mind points to yes, maybe it can work. I am optimistic that there may be some motivation to the characters here, but then again, I’m not really concentrating. I’m disobeying the will of the Almighty 8 Ball.
I am a liar. That’s the most important thing to know about me. I don’t know if it’s pathological or anything, but I am a mental disorder hypochondriac, so it might be. Either way, my lying is elevated, evolved. I exaggerate situations, gush white lies, make myself think I’m insane, and sometimes (just to give myself a break) profess flat-out lies. My memory is shot, but in second or third grade, I went to my first birthday party. I said I was allergic to chocolate cake. I wasn’t. When my parents came to pick me up, they were a little surprised and confused. Why would I say that? I don’t even know. Maybe I wanted the attention. Maybe I wanted to assert my individuality.
I feel there’s something important I should say before moving on. This story has no symbols, figurative language, etc. If I don’t say what I mean, then there will be a plethora of ways to interpret anything written here. I understand that a lot of writers want their audience to engage their minds and delve into the deeper philosophical, political, social, and other elements of the author’s masterpiece. This isn’t a masterpiece. This is me saying all the things I’ve ever wanted to say and analyzing them on my own. I use a lot of “maybes” because I don’t really know. Maybe I’m doing this because I’ve always been so putout and quiet. Who knows.
You’d think a professional liar would be good at it, but I don’t think many people believe me at all. They play me at my own game. Even when someone knows I’m lying, they act like they believe me, only to confront me sometime later, causing a massive blow to my egotistical heart. In cases where someone doesn’t know I’m lying, I still fuck myself because I leave too much suspicion. I don’t answer simple questions, or I answer too many complicated ones that they hadn’t even anticipated. I make up complex schemes that make no sense at all and do shady things like stay up all night and send covert messages. You’d think I’d learn by now.