I lie for a living.

Don’t look so shocked.  Lots of people do it.  You think an MBA is the best way to earn more money?  Sorry, honey, you’re wrong.  Lie, and you make a fortune.  Lying makes you one of the world’s elite.

Still don’t believe me?  Then consider all the occupations based on lying:  public relations (“We believe that toxins at this level are not poisonous.”), politicians (“Sure these tax cuts will go to help low income people.”), lawyers (“My client is innocent!”), high level executives (“There is no reason to believe nicotine is addictive.”), doctors for HMO’s (“It’s just a small growth, nothing to be concerned about at all.”).

I’m probably missing a few, but you get the idea.

The fact is, our society is based on lies, lots of little ones covering up lots of big ones.  We need people to lie to us.  They give us the little lies and entertain us with their tales that cover up the really big lies – the big lies we’re too scared to look at.

So, I don’t take lying so seriously.  It’s part of the job.

The funny part is, when I tell the truth, everything thinks it’s a lie.

I like to visit China at work.  Her shop is a great place to hang out – boys bringing motorcycles in to get repaired, boys picking up motorcycles that have been repaired and  a couple of cute boys repairing the motorcycles.  Oh, and I enjoy annoying China.

I’m sitting in a chair, tiled against the wall with only the back fee on the floor.  I can feel the concrete wall behind my head and I wonder what it would be like to be exhaling a long trail of smoke right now.  If I could stand the smell of it, I might try it. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” China mutters as she works under a bike.  Oil streaks her overalls and the bandana covering her head.  “FUCK!” she screams and a wrench goes clattering to the floor.

“What the fuck?!” China glares at me.  “What the fuck to you do for a living that you can afford to fucking sit there against the fucking wall like a goddamn useless fucking asshole all day?”

“I’m a consultant,”  I reply with a smile.  “I’m in between clients.”

“Right.”  China retrieves the wrench and waves it menacingly at me. “And I’m fucking Princess Diana.  Give me a fucking break, you’ve got no fucking job.  I just fucking wish I knew where you fucking get the money to live like you do.  Fucking bastard.”

“Alright, I’ll tell you.  I’m a professional hit man,”  I say with a smile.

“Fuck me,” China groans.  “Go get me a burrito.”

11 March 2001

Republicans are the smartest people in the world.

David invited me to an obscenely overpriced restaurant that I could never afford on my own, and being a food whore, I agreed to ago. 

“These are all new people,” said David.  “They don’t know me all that well, so just…don’t say too much.”

“If the food is good enough, I won’t have to,” I said in a rare moment of complete honesty.  I love David despite his obvious repression-based personality traits.  Perhaps I need to ask my therapist of this makes me codependent.  China might say I just need to stop seeing a therapist altogether then I wouldn’t worry about such things.

The restaurant in question has a waiting list months long, and we’re a big party – eight in all – so I suspect someone in the group has connections.  Connections to the inside restaurant world where you always get seated with the beautiful people and everyone knows how to pronounce the names of the wines.  My dream man has a great body, intelligence and such a connection.  I wonder if this dinner is the night that I finally meet him.

“Fashionably late,” David whispers as if he had planned to arrive last but before our lateness was actually noticed.”

The new friends are perfectly attired, perfectly coifed, perfectly perfumed and perfectly matched.  Six white men with perfect white teeth smiling perfectly artifical smiles.  I rapidly consider if I have time to vomit before dinner.  Then I worry that someone might think I was one of them.  David seems right at home and immediately launches into vapid small talk.

“So David!” says a new friend.  “We were just talking about the new census data!  It looks like our side will be able to gain some seats when they set out the new congressional districts!”

David smiles broadly and nods knowingly. 

“Yeah,” says another new friend “But what I think is funny is all the talk about the Hispanics outnumbering the Blacks!  They say that everyone thought it would take until 2010 for that to happen, but is already has!  Blacks are no longer the largest minority group, and it’s funny to hear all the pundits saying why!”

“The real reason is pretty obvious,” says new friend number three.  “But no body on their side is saying it!  Face it – the Hispanics breed like lice – popping out kids left and right.  The Blacks on the other hand, either shoot each other before they are old enough to reproduce or get locked up before they have too many!”  He laughs.

“Well, the Hispanics shoot each other too,” replies the first new friend with a laugh and a smile, “but they just have so many of them that no one notices one or two missing.”

They all laugh.  David included.

I hope the Hispanic cooks in the kitchen spit in their expensive soup.  Does staying and eating now make me codependent?  I’ll have to ask my therapist.

21 March 2001

Without death, life would have no meaning. 

At least that is the story someone told me.  No one has ever given much evidence to support this statement – it’s strictly theory. 

Sometimes I am incredibly aware of my mortality.

I’ll wake up at night and feel my heart beating.  And then I think of when it will stop.  And wonder what happens then.

Forever is a terribly long time to be gone.   My heart jumps a beat or two thinking of it.

I wonder if The Religious might be right. Is there some patriarch waiting for us with a giant cosmic paddle, ready to even the score for our lives here.  Or are The Religious terribly wrong, and wanting all the fun that denial based lifestyles miss? 

It’s a strange gamble really.  We can place our bet on one number or the other, and then we have to wait. 

Other times, I think that death is a break really.  That we’ve made such a mess of things that our brains simply can’t survive prolonged exposure to unfiltered humanity.  Death is the universe saying “Come on now, out of the pool, you’ve been in long enough.” 

I know people who work to drink every day in, to savor each moment, to hold each second as a precious jewel.  I know others who barely notice life passing by as they speed to work with windows tightly closed against the world.  Either way works, I think.  You don’t take it with you, and as far as we can tell, dead bodies aren’t much attached to memories.

I lay awake, feeling my heart beat and wonder what comes next.  If the Buddhists are correct, maybe next time I’ll come back as a cow.  Just hopefully not in Britain.
 
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