Good liars - storytellers, for instance - know that a proper lie should be simple, plausible, easy to remember and efficient. If you let it change colors, sprout wings and develop a life of its own, it'll make your listeners suspicious. Worse, you'll get caught and have to tell another to cover up.
Working with someone who lies about what he had for breakfast is mystifying and bewildering. I understand lying for the sake of a good story, to elevate your own importance, to shift the spotlight, to reinforce your sketchy self esteem, get away with something or play the big dog. But lying for the sheer hell of it - especially when it's so pitifully easy to expose - makes no sense to me. It seems to be second nature, even pathological, I sometimes think, and I'm a little awestruck.
It's mostly so trivial that it's hardly worth the effort it would take to confront so I usually just nod and smile and continue what I'm doing. It's harmless, I tell myself, a little sad and a little delusional maybe, but harmless. Curiosity, though, is a beast with sharp teeth and it nags and gnaws at me. It wants me to question, challenge, and demand to know why. I'm only saved by my own fear of a scene.
We all live in fantasy at times. Who am I to say that his story telling is less worthy than mine.
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