Chapter One: The Proper Way to Lie

Lying makes being alive just a little bit less intolerable. Only when it’s done right, though, and I can safely say I am the only person in the world who does it right.

You want an example now, I bet. Fine, I’ll give you one. Just know that if you read my example and say to yourself afterwards “that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” then go right ahead. I'd have to say I really couldn't give two fucks. It's not my job to change my life around so that you like it. So you can take your opinions and shove them at someone who actually gives a flaming shit. Don't get me wrong, it's cool and all that to have an opinion. Just don't expect me to care.

Anyway.

Here’s the example, and for the record, what I’m about to tell you is true. And, no, the irony of that statement isn’t lost on me. Believe my story or don’t. What you choose to believe doesn’t concern me. I’d repeat the whole two fucks, flaming shit bit again, but I don’t feel like it, so I won’t. If you really want to read it again, though, it’s not like it disappeared.

Getting back on track…

Example:

I go to this fancy boarding school. It’s called Dalton. I don’t go because I like it. I go because living at Dalton means I don’t have to live with the two fuckwit accidents I’m forced to call parents, and that is always a win. There is a downside of course. My roommate, Steven, happens to be a whiny little bitch with an ass puckered up so tight it’s a wonder that he’s actually gay. Short story even shorter: we don’t like each other.

Back to Stevie boy later though.

So one day the headmaster calls me to his office. On his desk he’s got a small packet of weed and on his face he’s got this pinched, disappointed look. I don’t ask, and I don’t have to ask, but he tells me anyway. He says the floor captain was making his rounds in all the dorms. He says the floor captain checked my dorm, which, yeah, no fucking shit he checked my dorm. But anyway. He says the floor captain found weed in my dorm. In my dorm, in my dresser, in my sock drawer.  

My, my, my, my, my.

Only the weed doesn’t actually fall under that category—the ‘my’ category. Know why? Cause it’s not mine. Because I don’t smoke weed. I don’t do drugs. Not even cigarettes. Not cause it’s ‘wrong’ or ‘bad for my health’ or any of that crock and bull shit, but because I honestly just never felt like it and if I don’t feel like doing something, then I don’t do it. Simple as that.

I’ll give you ten guesses who the weed does belong to, though.

Stevie boy.

A fun fact about Stevie: he doesn’t actually do drugs. Ass puckered tighter than a drum, remember? You pop more than 2 Advils at a time where he can see you do it and the guy will rant for two fucking hours about the merits of proper drug use. He's a goody goody. So, no, he doesn’t do weed.  What he does do, however, is plot and scheme more than a fourteen year old girl with a bad case of Imafuckingannoyingassedbitch. Basically, what I'm getting at is he set me up.

How do I know this? Cuz I watched him do it. Why? Because he was creeping around my side of the room at three in the morning and I wanted to know what the fuck for. And instead of rolling over and going back to sleep I watched him and saw him put it in my sock drawer. Then I rolled over. The next morning, there it was sitting there and there I left it to sit.

Why didn’t I take it out? Because nothing interesting had happened in a while and I was bored.

So anyway. Back to the story of Jeremy Bennett, Headmaster of Dalton Academy for boys and the meeting in his office with a delinquent named Blaine Anderson.

After throwing around about a thousand we-found-weed-in-your-this-and-in-your-that's all over the damn place, Headmaster Bennett still picks up the little package, gives it a shake as if somehow that makes shit real, and says, “Now, I don’t want anything but the honest truth from you... is this yours?” He said the honest truth bit real serious like. Like he really meant it, or else.

I’ll tell you a secret, though. He didn’t actually mean it. What he actually meant was: Lie, you guilty little shit so I can nail your teenaged balls to the wall. And that is straight from the horse’s mind—yes, you read that right, mind, not mouth—but I’ll tell you more about that some other time. For now, back to the story at hand.

To refresh your memory… packet shake, implied admonishing finger wag coupled with a stern ‘Now, I don’t want anything but the honest truth from you,’ dramatic pause, and then finally, “Is this yours?”

And I said with a shrug and a head roll, “Yep. S’mine.”

It cost my father ten thousand dollars to hush Bennett up about the whole thing, but hush Bennett up he did. He’s a real trooper, that one. My father, not Bennett, at least not in this particular case, because Bennett can be a trooper too.

So, anyway, there you have it: “The Proper Way to Lie,” by Blaine Wyatt Anderson.

For those of you who need me to spell out, though: Lying should never be inconsequential. If people don’t think you’re crazy for lying about whatever it was that you lied about, then you’re doing it wrong. Why? Because people lie about the smallest, stupidest shit every day and it pisses me off. Go big or don’t fucking bother.

But, yeah, that’s the end.

I have more, if you’re interested.

“The Proper Way to Tell the Truth”

“The Proper Way to Ignore Kurt Hummel”

“The Proper Way to At Least Pretend to Ignore Kurt Hummel”

“The Proper Way to Cope With the Fact That You Can’t Even Pretend to Ignore Kurt Hummel”

The list goes on, really. I’ll share them with you if you want.

But only if you’re interested. If not, I see no point in bothering myself with it.

-Blaine