My wife sat up in bed screaming: “Spider! Spider! Spider!” I woke up, smashed the little bastard, and laid back down.

“How can you sleep after that?” she asked, “What if there’s more of them?”

“Spiders are territorial, like cougars. It’ll take 48 hours for another one to take its place.” I spun the yarn and fell asleep.

Lies she calls them. I’m a Liar. Stories I call them. I’m a Storyteller.

Lies are malicious, something told as an avoidance tactic or a means of depriving another. Lies breed more lies and are a rope with an anchor, dragging the liar down a rabbit hole to a spinning hell where they struggle to remember and match the tumult they cause with every wretched word. Lies are nails in a coffin. Told in a distinctive row that shuts the liar into their own doom.

Stories are fun. Stories are informative or entertainment.

“You deceived me to escape checking the room.”

“No, love. I just entertained myself.”

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