Have you ever wondered what makes someone into a pathological liar?
I have. They have always fascinated me, despite being a pretty honest myself. Something about them resonates with me.
And I think the main lure of the liar’s life is that special liar’s high human beings get when they feel like they are getting away with something.
This liar’s high is well established and documented, and it is presumably this high that is the pathological liar’s primary addiction.
They pursue it with such heedless abandon that they will continue to lie even when their lies are obvious and not fooling anybody.
I think there’s more to it than that, though. I think that for some people, lying gives them a feeling of control and power. After all, while reality might be fixed and unforgiving, the negotiated reality we create via communication is not, and one of the dirtiest tricks the human mind can play on itself is to edit one’s personal reality by convincing people of a version of reality that you prefer and then believing it yourself based on their belief.
A certain kind of person – one with quite a bit wrong with them, sadly – finds that kind of power irresistible, and falls into the pathological liar trap.
Sadly, it is an affliction that is very hard to cure as the patient generally does not truly believe there to be a problem.
And of course, these people can do enormous amounts of social damage with their lies. Hearts broken, people betrayed, trust abused, and so on.
I wonder what the effect on their long term mental health might be? After all. it seems to me that they themselves would lose track of what is real and what is illusion, and that can’t be good for mental stability.
Anyhow, I bring this subject up because I have significant powers of illusion myself. I just don’t use them to try to fool people into believing lies.
Instead, I use them as a writer does. A writer is, after all, a professional liar. If I write “Bob was an accountant who loved scuba diving”. I know that there is no Bob the accountant who loved scuba diving. I just made him up. He is, in that sense, a lie.
But of course, fiction has certain signifiers that tell the reader that what they are reading is not a record of true events, but that special brand of lying known as fiction. So nobody is actually fooled, nor am I trying to fool them.
This gives me unlimited power within the imaginary world of my story. Like I have said before, in the world of my storytelling, I have more power than God, because even God is just another fictional character in my writing and does whatever I tell Him to do.
God finally gets sick of Trump’s bullshit and makes him go on live international television and curse out the NRA, the Constitution, Christianity, and everyone dumb enough to vote for him before violently soiling himself while openly masturbating and shouting “FUCK THE USA!”.
See? Piece of Cake.
My imagination scares me sometimes.
More after the break.
Back from the Twilight Zone
Laid down for a nap at around 4 PM. Usually, my naps are like two hours tops. This time, I woke up at 7:45 pm extremely disoriented and confused, even by my standards.
It then takes me around 15 minutes to even get it together enough to get out of bed. It’s like there is a vast shadow in my mind that makes it very hard to think straight (ha) or do anything linearly, like say, ordering my weekly meal.
Was going to get Indian food from Tandoori King Cafe but got sticker shock at the price ($36!) so now I have ordered far more food from a Greek place called Opa! for only $25, which is a way better deal.
So now the food is on its way and here I am, tapping the heys like I know what I am doing when I am still highly disoriented and part of me just wants to crawl back under the covers and hibernate.
Luckily, I have my hunger to keep me on track.
Still, the shit is getting so very old. I am so damned tired of sleep being such a weird thing for me. I can’t even imagine eight hours of sleep in a row any more.
I mean, I know it happens to billions of people overnight, but any attempt to relate such a bizarre idea to myself results in every mental error in the book.
Brain crashed. Please reset your mind.
Hmmm. Seems like my delivery person (deliverer?) is having trouble because the website says they are here but so far no food and it’s been ten minutes.
Frustratingly, the phone rang exactly once but when I picked it up, dial tone.
I want my frigging food, dude!
Preferably before I end up spontaneously falling asleep.
Well this fuckin’ sucks.
At 9 pm, I contacted Skip the Dishes via text chat and according to their records, the courier got here but then couldn’t get me on the phone so the order was canceled.
Canceled? But I’m still hungry, motherfucker!
Well I was way too hungry to go make a new order then wait for it to arrive, so I am eating a normal, boring, non-restaurant meal and seething with resentment.
I mean, what the fuck, right? I have gotten hundreds of orders via this phone and this phone number, yet this numbnuts can’t get me on the phone?
Argh. Oh well, at least I saved $25 this way. But I was really looking forward to my little Greek feast. I hardly ever have Greek, but when I do, I enjoy it.
Well shit. I am late. Apparently, I was 45 words away from being done when my mind wandered and forgot to return.
Oh well. Missing the midnight deadline by only 45 words when I have hit it 99 percent of the time is no big deal, I suppose.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.