The Real Story


I see now that I never told you the real story about me. …Instead I told you a fake story about me. There was a reason for this. The real story was unflattering and, therefore, embarrassing. So therefore, I slightly altered the real story.

I meant only for these alterations to be minor. I made some alterations in chronology, heightened some lines of dialogue, omitted certain things that you didn’t really need to know. As I said, these adjustments were meant to be minor. However, these adjustments had a cumulative, even exponential effect. So, thus, in the story that I told you, I made a funny speech to a crowd of people at a party, who then praised me for my funniness. However, what actually happened was that I hid in a bathroom at a party and started crying.

I am sorry for not telling you the real story, but I had good intentions. The real story was depressing, for instance, and I didn’t want to bum you out. Also, I wanted you to like me, and also, I wanted you to have sex with me. Thus, in the fake story, I made myself seem funnier, wiser, more noble. Again; these are natural things to do.

That was a funny story!” you said when I told you the fake story.

I know; right?” I said. Then we had sex.

However, I see now that it was a mistake to not tell you the real story. But now, even if I try to tell you the real story — well, that won’t really work. Telling you the “real” story will involve admitting that I lied in the first place. And so, then, you won’t believe any other stories that I tell you, because I’ll be a liar, so there’s no point, really, in even bothering to attempt the truth, since you wouldn’t believe it anyway.

But I am sorry about all of this. Believe me that I am sorry. I had good intentions? But I see now that the fake story is like a closed door, blocking you from the truth about me. The real story is like an open door that would give you access to the truth. But I can’t show you that door now. The open door still exists; it’s just that you don’t know about the open door. It’s a door, in a house, in the middle of the wilderness somewhere; a house that you won’t visit. …It’s a door. The open door is an open door in the middle of the wilderness. And when the wind blows through it, it doesn’t make a sound.

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