"When you’re the liar, you are that guy we’ve all sat down to a friendly game of poker with, the overeager, smarmy one with the odd tells, the one who repeatedly claims he doesn’t understand the rules but seems to know his way around the table just fine. Not only is no one sure exactly who invited him, but he takes all the fun out of the game. And he’s an ass when he wins the pot, scooping up your cash with a sweaty snort while you give the knowing glance to your regular players. This is the guy from whom you hide your good beer in the farthest reaches of the fridge. The one you rant about after he’s cleaned you out. The one you promise will not be invited back.
I’m not playing that game anymore."
I swear I've met that guy before. I just...hmm...I can't pinpoint WHERE.
The question of honesty makes my nerves draw up inside my skin, like when you anticipate the piercing sting of a finger prick. It's hard to wager yourself after the burn of deceit, very hard indeed. It's hard not to assume that everyone's intentions are the same. We are a culture of "every man for himself," are we not? I just wonder if he's out there...he doesn't have to arrive on a majestic white horse, or come to my door with bouquets of flowers or compliments, or a twinkle in his eye - I'd be skeptical of the twinkle anyway. I just want him to be honest. Honest and absurdly in love with me.
...and maybe good shoes.
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And also, Tuesday's snap-shot:
Yeah, I'm a bottle brunette.
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