Tell me lies

In which the truth is harder than the fiction.

I’ve written from some exotic places, like the Maldives and Greece, but today I’m writing away on a tour bus of Boston.

This is the first post I’ve made about the lying and telling the truth, and also the first time I shall have a rant about something. See lying is easy, and I say that as a 6’7” tall, dark and handsome astrophysicist. Unlike my career of choice, fibbing is not rocket science…and that this is the second time I have posted this.

Lying is essential to our own survival. It’s a cover for our fears, betrayals, neuroses and selfishness. A way of pretending that we appear better than we act, a way of convincing ourselves of an alternative reality where there are rainbows, and butterflies, and everyone sings and no one ever cries except tears of joy and that happens all the time because everything is so frakking wonderful. And there are unicorns.

Like Neo’s spoon, this is all a lie.

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