My December to Remember: Day Two
News: KJP says Biden believes in being truthful to the American people despite the White House saying for months that Hunter Biden would not be pardoned and that he only did it because of how “politically infected” Hunter’s cases were.
Special Counsel David Weiss, who prosecuted Hunter, says Biden’s motion to dismiss the cases should not happen.
Israeli-American captured by Hamas during October 7th attack confirmed dead, Trump says all hostages must be set free by Inauguration Day.
House Coronavirus Pandemic Committee releases 502-page report.
Remember Jussie Smollett’s MAGA Country “attack?” Chris Watts acting like he didn’t know where his family was? The Russiagate Hoax? How about the lady who said she got a third tit implanted? If you said yes to any of these, I hope you could discern the BS from the beginning like I could. So many stories hit the mainstream, and something in your gut just tells you, “Nah.” The lying liars lie, and we’ve got to pretend they’re not lying. My simplistic idealism wonders why people don’t just tell the truth and save themselves the headache, but what’s the fun in that when you’ve got drama and clicks to satisfy?
I feel as though I’ve got a good enough BS detector to sniff this nonsense out, but not everyone does, and some people’s perceptions aren’t always accurate at the onset. Still, it’s not my place to scream in their faces about it, and it’s best to let them come to whatever conclusion they see fit. Plus, no one believes me about anything anyway, so it’s not like my feelings will be hurt. But I’m not infallible. I’m not always right. I haven’t done it perfectly either. I too can succumb to the lack of sincerity, and it’s best to remember that the moment I feel like putting on a show.
Years and years ago, my friend and I wanted to do an overnight trip into Manhattan. We had an idea to go to a club somewhere downtown. Clubbing was not my scene, but I said I’d go anyway. My friend’s dad had gotten us a hotel in Midtown that for all I know could have been one-star lodgings. I remember sitting in there, feeling like if we had stayed there for the night, there was a fifty-percent chance of both of us being murdered, so I told her we had to go elsewhere. She was fine with it, so I called up a friend who was a student at Columbia University, and she agreed to let us spend the night in her dorm.
Now, I know I’m a New Yorker and I was born here, but I grew up in New Jersey. Still, something would happen to me back then every time I’d head into the city. I’d pretend I knew more than I did about it, or that I was “from” there and knew the scene. I even went as far as putting on an exaggerated New York City accent when interacting with strangers. It was weird and boastful thing to do for a 19-year-old. And it’s exactly what I did on the cab ride up the West Side Highway en route to Columbia.
The cab ride couldn’t have been more than ten minutes uptown, but I was in hyper mode, spilling our story to this driver with the thickest and fakest accent I could muster. My friend was kind of looking at me funny, but it also felt like she was just allowing me to do it, my theatrics being kind of par for the course for her. But then, my Columbia friend called my cell phone to get our ETA, and I shrunk back down into the seat, trying to speak low so the driver wouldn’t notice my “accent switch.” But I didn’t pull it off. As soon as I hung up, the driver inquired, “Where’s your accent?” I forced a laugh and didn’t say anything else, finishing the rest of the ride in near silence, my disingenuousness hanging heavy between the three of us.
What was I thinking? What was to be gained by my lack of limpidity? I just felt like a fool, a fraud, a phony who should just keep her mouth shut unless I could assure myself that I’d be talking reals next time.
But I was young. Brain not fully-formed, I suppose. I’ve learned a lot since then, mainly about how it’s simply more desirable to be your authentic self, your real authentic self when you’re in any given situation. Sure, you’ve got to be prepared to perform, but the genuine nature always finds a way to peek through the cracks. And people certainly can tell, now more than ever I believe.
I’m not here to lie. I’m not here to hoax. I just want to be me. And schadenfreude my way through everyone else who chooses deception over directness. Because whatever truths may drop once things are “legitimate” again come January 20th, we’ve got to be prepared to accept the harsh realities that lay before us. Or resist the urge to tell everyone “I told you so.” But that’s more for me than anyone, I suppose.
