Tell me Sweet Little Lies.

It’s exciting to think about writing and talking to You every day.  When I sit down to type (or stand sometimes, because I heard that’s healthy), I don’t have to deal with wearing that government-issued blanket of anxiety for a  while, and whatever twists the back of my stomach up in a small knot retreats.  Picasso said that art is “a lie that makes us realize truth,” and as I keep finding the courage to create, I dive deeper into understanding how powerful that statement is.

We lie to each other all the time, don’t we?

We tell a story about some jerk that pissed you off, and that jerk has an inexplicably menacing voice.  Trouble seems to supernaturally occur while so many of us are “minding [our] own business.” And we can’t believe why someone would blow up at the smallest request.

But then again …

We lie about big guys in red suits delivering presents.  And humanoid bunnies hopping around with chocolate.  And that the “food” product Bac-O-Bits should be a thing.  I know all of us aren’t responsible about that last one, but silence is complicity, people.  Think about taking action.

Anyway, when is a lie a story, and when does a story become a lie? I think it just matters on what we believe, and  when it’s good for us to believe it.

That got really deep.  Couldn’t help it.  It’s cloudy out, and I’m wearing a super big hoodie and socks.

And now I want bacon.  Shit.