I grew up in a family of tall tale tellers.
Not malicious, just story tellers. Not much was reported without some additional sprinkling on top of what I felt was truth.
It happens to this day – by my parents – they each recounted last weekend within 24 hours of each other by phone and their stories were adorably disparate.
There are many reasons to bend the truth – some to change your own reality; other to change or manipulate another’s perception. Some might be a low care factor for the actual fact. A quiet life; a need to control; and so and so and so. People have their reasons.
I identify the trait in myself – the tendency to care less for actual facts and more about how I can use them to my own ends – impish or not. I am mindful of it. I think am exceptionally good at keeping track of it. And I think I know when I take it too far.
…And I also see it’s a slippery slope because people are always smarter than they look and they always know when you are wooly. If you call me I will always try to admit it with a grin.
As a result of my life experiences, I reckon I have become exceptionally good at following another’s truth. Maybe this is because I needed the skill as a child to discern fantasy from reality. It may be hereditary but it feels conditioned. It feels as if I need to be able to see the deviation from the line so I can understand where the person is speaking from.
Some of you are better at it than others. I believe I always know who you are – the bullshit artists. And I listen with interest and sometimes frustration. I’ll usually call you on it if it starts to bother me. Provided you can admit it with a grin too, we should be alright.
Unless I just made all that shit up in a tall tale trio to fuck with youse. Who knows.