Johnny Sits next to a Pretty Girl:
Truth Be Told

A liar? I don’t think you really mean that, do you? I mean, you can call me a liar if it makes you feel better. If it gives you a sense of order to slap a label on things then go ahead. Call me a liar. But understand, I believe the label to be unjust. I am lazy. I'm ethically and, perhaps, morally flexible. I’m certainly flawed. But to say that I’m a liar, in the strict sense of the word, just won’t do. Here’s the thing. When I do participate in what you and others feel justified in labeling as lies, they feel to me very much like truth. That is to say, they come about in an organic way. Nothing premeditated. Very in the moment. Fictions of necessity, so to speak. And when you think about it, a reality shaped by fiction is no less real. A man that jumps off a high-rise because he believes a heartbreaking lie reaches terminal velocity in exactly the same amount of time as a man that jumps for heartbreaking reasons that are true. Right? Take, for example, our relationship. When we were at Catfish Roundup last weekend and you called the fritter-girl back because you knew, just by the look in my eye, that I wanted another apple fritter even though I had just said, “if I put one more goddamn fritter in my mouth, I will fucking explode”—you knew. I felt such love for you while I ate that fritter. You felt it, too. Be honest. Now, fritters aside, have we ever been to the Catfish Roundup restaurant together? No. Does the place even exist? I have no idea. But the point is, until we reach your stop, and I’m guessing midtown so we’ve got some time, we are in a relationship. Is it a long-term relationship? No. Is it going well? Nope. Fucked up as a soup sandwich. But that alone doesn’t disqualify it as a relationship. So look, let’s just agree to disagree: I still think you have beautiful eyes and you still think you don’t. Let’s leave it at that. Truth be told, I’m on the wrong bus anyway.