LIAR, LIAR PANTS ON FIRE

Dear Diary… my little white diary with the latch that could lock away thoughts for my eyes only… I’ve deceived you.

I was a teller of untruths – a spinner of yarns…

fabricator,

falsifier,

PHONY BALONEY!

Before I make known my fraudulent handiwork here is proof that a number of my entries were ‘the whole truth and nothing but’:

Yet it is quite evident, as I matured, that putting pen to paper was quite productive when I was, shall we say, s t r e t c h i n g the truth. Here’s just a sampling:

I lied through my teeth – a lot – about boys. Scribbled about boys I yearned for but only knew from afar. Cute boys from another school… boys who had no idea I even existed.

I spun a web of deceit by pleading with my diary to help me navigate the multiple phone calls and movie dates I felt pressured to juggle – ALL LIES. There are pages where I describe having to choose between two boys who were so ‘in like’ with me – IN MY MIND. 

Oh BOY.

Although I named real names – the circumstances within were all fiction. The dance where Louie dedicated a song to me? Did not happen. Howie looking deep into my eyes? Did not happen. Steve asking me on a date? Never, ever happened.

All consciously concocted figments of my imagination.

I lied to you… my darling diary…when the revealing of private (sincere) truths and genuine longings should have filled those pages.

I was a bold faced fibber!

My talking to boys only occurred when I was with girlfriends making phony phone calls. But in the flesh? Yikes, I was timid as hell… even though my “memoir” says otherwise.

It’s apparent how much I bought into the idea that my worth be measured by attention received from boys. Sorry (not sorry) to break it to you boys, but you are not the be-all end-all in making one feel complete. 

Particularly when created out of thin air and set down in ink.

Nevertheless I distinctly recall judging how boring my unelaborated, unvarnished entries would be. As a result, I made a deliberate effort to inflate my social reality… all in order to make me appear more fascinating to myself and all those ‘future people’ clamoring to read my little white diary.

All those imminent would-be clamorers!

As the only ‘future person’ to read this diary (so far), I wish I could tell my 12-year-old self not to look for anyone else’s validation… that she alone was fascinating enough.

And worthy of reciprocated love.

And quite a creative fictioneer.

An addendum: I did find one honest to goodness entry about a boy! A 6th grade break-up situation told as follows: