Just yesterday, I did a post on lying. And people told me that it’s something that makes me immoral arsehat. And I agree. Lying is the worst thing you can ever do. But what if your life happened to be so crappy that you had to do a bit of lying to keep others from feeling sorry for you?
I’m going to come clean. But first, here are a few questions I gotta ask:
What would you do if your (overprotective and controlling bordering on psychopathic) Mum happened to be your roommate, and:
1. You weren’t allowed to even go out to dinner with your friends after the exams got over?
2. You weren’t allowed to be on the phone, let alone blog because blogging apparently eats into your study hours and it isn’t something remotely useful?
3. You’d to face the wrath of the Momster if you ever did anything else apart from staying cooped up in the room, all day, letting textbooks suck the life out of you? All 365 days of the year?
4. You weren’t allowed to live happily?
5. You were only supposed to live your parents’ dreams of looking after their hospital because they wanted it?
6. You were supposed to get hitched to whoever they asked you to, because you were nothing but a business pawn in their lives?
7. You had to surrender your phone to your Mum the instant you got home?
8. So you wouldn’t be in touch with your “friends because it’s only us, your parents, who will be there for you”?
9. You’re 24, and can’t move out because you’d be subjected to honor killing, and yes, this is modern India?
10. You have no other choice?
Yes, lying is the obvious answer.
If I told my Mum the truth, “I’m going out to dinner with friends at this restaurant” that dinner would never happen. Why? Mum has a problem with the restaurant.
I’ve told her I’ve quit blogging, and I write my posts at work, so I wouldn’t be found out. I lie when she asks if I’m blogging on the phone, and when she comes checks, I’ve got a Google search on some stupid surgery, on my screen. So she can’t yell at me.
I pretend to study while I’m actually reading novels in between.
I pretend I’m happy. I lie to everyone when they ask how I’m doing and I say, “Hey, I’m fine” all breezily.
I lie that I’ll gladly be an ophthalmologist when I remotely won’t be. The minute I have enough saved up, I will elope with the President. (I always use humor as self-defence.)
I’ll get hitched and lie to the poor bloke about being happy. *double thumbs up* When it gets unbearable, I might disappear for a while.
The surrender the phone bit is something even I don’t understand. Why does Mum do it? I don’t know. She wants me to stop blogging, give up on makeup and novels, and become a cabbage. I lie to her that I have class and I need my phone for emergencies and go hang out with S at the Tea Shop. God, how pathetic.
I lie when I have no choice. Because if there’s anything worse than being a pathological liar, it’s being pitied. I loathe pity. I don’t need it and I don’t want it.
I told you why I do it. Feel free to judge. I’ve grown up with judgemental parents, and I never expect any better. And now that I’m going to Hell, wish me luck.