UNPUBLISHEDNOTDEAD!

So a couple weeks ago someone I know said something so shattering to a girl he was dating that she summarily broke up with him.  It’s all good folks, don’t send out sympathy cards to either side of the aisle, because evidently she asked for it, like the queue of misery of so many before her who asked to get yelled at, hit, beat up, eyes blackened, or what have you.  It’s ultimately anyone fault for asking for honesty and getting in return any multitude of resulting fare depending on the recipient of the question.  With him it started a month long tirade about people’s seriousness over the issue of truth.  His tirade went on and on about the institutional socially acceptable lies we accept in our culture on a regular basis; Santa Claus, God, Easter Bunny … Hanukah Harry.

Years ago I wrote in my now famous, yet unpublished, second person rant about nothing, a very thought provoking piece about the difference between truth and trust, and to make a long but brilliant story short, I concluded that truth and trust are different, because the ultimate test of trust is believing in something which may be other than the truth.   It got me to thinking though, about my relationship with the truth, and if it’s a marriage that I’ll take to the grave, or something I cheat on from time to time.

Let me make one thing clear right now I actually tell the truth more often than not because it’s easier, and with no greater purpose than that alone.  I do not follow a doctrine that explains my actions or inactions, and I don’t find myself using rewards and revenge for my life choices.  In other words, I don’t believe in hell, and I don’t think good things come to those who follow the path.  I lay my own path, and believe more in respect than I do karma.  I believe in anthems over ballads, and I believe in harmony over chaos.

What got the hamster going, however, is if I expect the same in return?  Do I expect people to tell me the truth no matter what, no matter when, and for no other reason than it’s an empirical constant that makes no difference in my life other than to wound me.  The answer to that is an emphatic NO.

I’ll begin my little dialogue by saying that unless you’re my doctor and my health is in serious risk, I’d prefer you answer the question “do you think I’m gaining weight?” with various answers which end with the word, “no.”  You can mix it up with “don’t be stupid, you’re hot,” or “I wish I looked like you,” or even “are you kidding me, fat? You need to gain weight!”  Trust me when I tell you that I have a mirror that stares back at me in the morning, and I pants which I know do not suddenly shrink or bind up without warning.  I’m well aware of my weight, and do not need a second opinion about it.

“Like my haircut?”  The answer to that is will always be, yes.  I usually cannot grow my hair back in any fashion for months, if not weeks.  I cannot go back to the hair place with any great hast, and get it re-cut.  I can go on with my life fine not knowing that my last haircut wasn’t a good one, and I can function in the hallows of my existence without wondering every waking moment that my hair looks awful.  And in the grand scheme of things having bad hair will neither make nor break my life in anyway.

Relationships are another minefield.  I have been cheated on, left, not liked, and any and all combinations of those things, and like most people I’m not all the better for knowing.  There has been no benefit to knowing that my boyfriend sought out and fucked various guys other than me.  I can think of no resulting personality trait that I developed as a result of knowing that I alone wasn’t good enough to keep someone from moving 3000 miles away from me for a 10,000-dollar buck in salary.  I have concluded that if you want to cheat on me, it’s better to just break up with me, or be good enough at doing it that I never find out.  I will never hire a private detective to find out where you are on Thursdays; if you say you’re playing racket-ball I will never question it, just take your rackets when you leave the house.  If you break up with me to be with someone else, then I’m perfectly okay with you telling me “I want to broaden my life,” or “I just don’t think I’m good enough for you.”  That last one is a good one, I never think anyone is good enough for me anyways, so I will not only believe this, but I will agree and send you on your way, probably with a thermos of coffee and some cake.

If I’m bad in bed just tell me “I don’t think we’re right for each other.  Trust me on this in general, if you think someone is awful in the sack the odds are they think you suck too.  If you’re not attracted to me anymore, then just tell me  “It’s not you it’s me, or “I just think you’re too good for me.”  Again, I already think I’m too good for you, so you’ll always win with that explanation, and as for the it’s not you it’s me, trust me when I tell you I’ll think that anyways, you may as well back me up.

All I’m saying is that truth is overrated, and (this is the most important part), I think that most truth is commentary anyways.  Your truth should always be on page six with disclaimers and far longer than anyone wants to read anyways … and leave page one to things that really matter, like your hair is on fire, or that movie sucks, or you’re so fucking hot I want to see you naked now.  Those things are the kingmakers.  Those things are the things people want to hear.  I once wrote that almost 90% of everything that people say they shit out, but 90% of what you are is based on what people say … I can’t do the math because it’s too complicated for my sensitive artistic brain, but we’d do far better in our world if the numbers on both ends of that equation were a little lower.