Spewing just facts may be cool and necessary when you’re under oath, but my hand isn’t on a Bible. I make your life better by spicing things up. I’m not saying my pants are on fire, but I will be damned if I’m going to put you to sleep with my rendition of the day.
I’ve rarely, if ever told a boring story, yet I get no respect. Just a bunch of fact checkers up my ass. You don’t work for Smoking Gun so let’s stop playing Internet P.I.
Part way through a tall tale someone busts in with “You really said that, like to the guys face??”
No jackass. Obviously I didn’t. Stop pretending you don’t need a little excitement down in Cubicle Wasteland.
Yes, I embellish. I exagerazzle my memory of events. So what. Isn’t that what our history is based on? Weren’t we handed fanciful, ear catching legends to refrain from losing listeners around the campfire?
Instead I get the look, the raised eyebrow and a finger to the lip.
I’m not lying friend. I’m simply lifting you up from the shitty bowels of Breaking News. Constant flow of mind grabbing chaos keeps sucking you in. There’s no time to focus, or think. It’s a strobe light feed of horror, deaths, crashes, wars. There’s no joy. You need me.
And I refuse to just fill your soul with happy and good news. Why would I when I can make grocery shopping sound like Die Hardest?
I may be speed walking through the frozen food section like everyone else, but when I hit the deli counter nothing short of ninjas and lightning storms surround me.
“What, you nearly lost your life waiting for shaved beef!?” you gasp.
“That’s right, sister. Out of nowhere, this old man literally shoves his cart directly up my ass.” My eyes widen for effect. “I am basically on my knees from the thrust and gasping for air!” Finale.
So, it’s a little over the top and I’ve grossly mislead you. What’s the payoff? You get a sweet adrenaline rush.
Selfless giving from me to you.
We all know a story teller. Just love us for the adventures we share. Enjoy the shivers that travel up your spine when we speak of the ghosts we’ve seen (might of been the wind) or the many times we’ve nearly died (six, counting the undiagnosed Lyme disease). For one day when we actually do die (likely boring and in our sleep) it won’t be what we actually did that you remember, it will be how we made you feel each time we told you about our trips to the mall, where we got like six bras for the price of one.