I think one of the reasons I love to write is because I'm a pathological liar.
It's true (or is it?) that I've always exaggerated. And once I start, I can't stop. Once I tell even a tiny white lie, I remember that lie and incorporate it into my next story about the same event, and then build from there. These lies seep into my memories, and then I can't remember what is real and what is make-believe.
My whole life could be a lie for all I know.
But it's not like I set out to blatantly lie to everyone I know. It's just that if I'm telling a story, and if I don't know some mundane detail, I'll just fill in the gaps with something that sounds plausible and hope it passes.
For instance, in one of my very first blog posts I wrote about how Subway's sandwich artists are not really "Sandwich Artists" but are instead "Sandwich Consultants." And in that blog I said that out of 1,732 Subway employees conducted by the FCPA, only 159 had attended a Liberal Arts college. I can now admit that I although I did in fact do this survey, I only read the first 400 responses then stopped. I feel so dirty.
Later that same year I wrote a blog about my dad falling in the shower and breaking a rib, and went on to say that instead of showering I just "dive into a vat of Purell gel, then dry myself off with Purell wipes." This was of course a lie - I never rinse the filth off of me, because once I start my wife will expect me to do it at least twice a week.
So I'm sorry for any lies that I've told. You deserve better. I'll try to be truthful from now on. And I swear, none of those last three were lies, or at least they weren't big ones.