Fire Pants

Found him appalling. Hated the fact that I did, but I did. I mean, I wanted to find as much value as I could in a person. But he thinks that he controls his lies, that his lies are some sort of subversion – political and literary – and we of lesser intellect (and commensurate faith) could not presume to judge his most minute fib. Took me all my energy to keep myself from telling him that he was a compulsive liar, that his lies controlled him, and his lies had little political value because he – despite claims about the military lusting after his cellphone – had as much political value as a singular farmer. And what literary value? I discovered no truth in his claim that he won both fiction and poetry fellowships. Funny how a phone call’s worth of research can annihilate his illusory struggle and move me to view his tearful production of one amber lie. There, I wrote it, and having written my disgust, ceased to hate him. There must be a way to stroke his head as if it were a kitten’s.