Most people that I’ve met have lied to me at least once. O.K., so the truth is, anyone that’s ever lied to me once, has probably lied to me way more than that. After a person tells one lie, I usually just assume that I’ll never hear much truth from that person again so, really, one lie means that someone is a liar. People lie so often, that sometimes, they don’t even realize when they’re lying. And most of those very same people are delusional and believe that white lies don’t count, and sometimes they’ll tell you that they don’t want to hurt your feelings, and say that it’s even better to white lie, than to tell you the truth.
I guess I just don’t relate to many people these days. And that’s why I’d rather be alone, than to have friends who would lie to me once, many times, or even occasionally telling a white lie, even if they’d think it would make me less sad or upset than to hear the truth. Frankly, I’d rather hear the truth, or I’d just rather not hear them say anything, because at least then, I wouldn’t consider them liars.
It’s not so bad really; being alone, not having many friends, and just doing my own thing. Sometimes I wonder why other people feel the need to surround themselves with so many people and make so many friends, when most of the time, those people are just fake and pretending to like them and enjoy their company and the things that they say. People usually just pretend to like what you like and their friends usually do the same so that they get along better. I like being alone, and although I also liked being social once upon a time, like back in the third grade when we used to live in Chicago, now I really don’t feel the need to have friends, at least not lately.
Mom used to ask me the same questions every single day after school like,”How was your day? Are you getting along with the other kids? Making any new friends?” I don’t know why she’d always ask those same annoying questions, because my answer was always the same, “I don’t really want to make any friends right now. I don’t like the kids in this school. They’re all fake and liars, like the rest of L.A.” Mom would know best. By now, she could probably win the “Guinness World Record” for having had the most bad first dates, which most of, only lasted that one date because she’d say that they were all so fake.
Becky constantly lies. She lies all of the time. She likes to write in her diary, or as some people would call it, “a journal.” She writes in it every single day since our mom bought it for her. And she acts completely private about it, hiding it from me, even though she’s my sister. She says that she hopes that no one will ever read it when she dies, or anytime between now and then. But I think that she’s lying, because she’s lied to me before, which really means that she’s probably lying when she says that too.
I think that she wants people to read it and even though she hides it from me, I sometimes think she wants me to be the one who reads it first. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. She lies to me so much that I don’t really know when she means things that she says and when she doesn’t, but I guess it doesn’t matter how she really feels, because I read her precious diary anyway.
Mom never bought me a diary. I really don’t know why, but I guess it’s because she says that boys don’t have feelings like girls do and it helps make their thoughts become more lucid so they can deal with boys better. I never told Mom that I wanted one just like Becky, because I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t macho like the kinds of men that she dates. So, I write in a spiral notebook. And I wrote with a permanent black marker, in big, capital letters on the front cover: “JAKE’S PRIVATE JOURNAL.” I even made the word “private” bold so that no one would read it, because unlike Becky, I really didn’t want people to read my private thoughts.
I hated the way that Becky would write in her diary and fill up all of the pages with fictional garbage. She never wrote the exact truth in her diary. Actually, she never even wrote any version of the truth. Although, there really aren’t supposed to be versions… Yet still, she would write so much that if anyone did read what she’d write, they’d think that she would’ve lived the life of an old woman, wise beyond her years, and had more experience than even The Great “Jiminy Cricket.” Becky had such great writing skills, that she could have anyone believe that what she wrote were true, and not full of lies, because she was actually really good in English, and wrote better than most of her class.
For me though, it has always been harder to write down my thoughts. I always feel so afraid to write down my real thoughts and what really happens every day because it’s too intense, and I think that if anyone ever knew what really went on inside of my head, they’d judge me, think I was crazy, and a total mess. And anyone that ever did like me, would probably stop liking me. Not that I needed to be liked by everyone, or anyone for that matter. But even the thought of people judging me for what I’d write, and say things behind my back, or even worse, to my face, just gives me so much anxiety, that I’d rather not know. But I guess that’s why my notebook is full of blank pages.
While Becky fills up her diary with elaborate and interesting fiction, appearing to have what looks like a great life, which is really not much greater than mine, I still only have these blank pages in front of me. And I really don’t know what’s worse: writing down lies to make things seem great or having blank pages, but at least being honest about it. But, I guess, it’s not really that important if she writes lies, pretending it’s her real life, because after all, it’s more like her telling white lies, and white lies are said when you don’t want to hurt other people. And anyway, maybe if my pages were filled up with honesty, people would end up feeling hurt if they’d read it, so maybe I should just stick to fiction like Becky.
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