ALL THE FRIKKING TIME.
Small lies, big lies. White lies, huge lies. Nice lies, mean lies. Believable lies, unbelievable lies. Understandable lies, pointless lies.
She’s the kind of person who lies…gets found out and then makes up MORE lies in a poor attempt to strengthen the initial lie.
How can I be expected to respect and live amicably with the ultimate liar?!? It’s no mean feat, I tell you.
I would like to think that if I was a compulsive liar, that I would be damn good at it. But she, is crap. The facts don’t add up. Her lies go forgotten. The stories overlap. Dates don’t fit. It’s almost as if she wants to be found out.
For the sake of family peace and just nice general living, I pretend not to see through her blatant and terrible lies. Instead I humour her. Push me too far and your empire of bullshit might come crumbling down, but, if you’re reading dear flatmate, you don’t fool me. Actually, you don’t fool anyone.