People love to say “the truth hurts.”
Nah.
Truth only hurts if you’re lying.
I can say outlandish shit about myself because I’m not trying to keep up a façade.
Or maybe I am. Maybe I’m such a dark-souled bastard that the stuff I admit out loud is just the smoke screen.
Maybe the performance is the confession.
Either way—
it doesn’t matter.
When I tell stories, I try to be honest in the only way that actually counts:
I show my hand.
I mark the bias.
I tell you where the lens is cracked.
I write myself into the story so you can see who’s holding the camera.
That’s the deal.
That’s the exchange.
But let’s not kid ourselves—every writer is a manipulator.
I’m trying to move you.
I’m shaping perception.
So yes, you should be suspicious of me.
Hell, you should be suspicious of anyone who tells you they “speak the truth.”
Facta non verba.
Deeds, not words.
Because the second you start describing truth, you’ve already twisted it into a story.
Observation contaminates purity.
The act of witnessing bends reality toward the witness.
So yeah—maybe there is no such thing as objective truth.
Maybe we’re all just performing honesty for each other.
Maybe that’s the real cosmic joke:
we’re all pretending to be objective while chasing whatever makes us feel righteous.
But here’s one thing you can trust:
Don’t buy my bullshit.
Don’t take my word for anything.
I usually know what I’m doing.
And if I’m lying, it’s not because I’m trying to fool you—
it’s because it’s easier than remembering every messy, contradictory detail of being human.