Professional Bullshitter

I could go on and tell you that everything is dandy.

The definition of dandy is good. Peachy. Great. Couldn’t be fucking better.

I could spin that tale a thousand different ways, and trust me, you’d believe me because I’m a professional. A veteran when it comes to lying, to making people believe things they shouldn’t. It’s a compulsive behavior, and my therapist says I’m a pathological bullshitter.

Well, she said, “Ty, you have a problem, you’re a pathological liar. We need to address this.”

I hate the word liar. It’s a bullshit word. I’m a bullshitter. A storyteller. A creator of things. My therapist doesn’t want to work with me though, she’s like a wave constantly pushing against me. The only thing we’ve ever agreed on is that she call me my nickname Ty, and not my real name Edricomonty.

Ha ha ha ha ha. Hilarious. Yeah my mom wanted to be different. She was a nut, and I had no dad to tell her she needed to lay off the booze. School was miserable. I made it through, though, because I’m a genius and pro bullshitter. I didn’t walk to graduate with the other kids. There was no one coming to watch me anyhow.

I always told myself that those kids were faking all that cheering and those happy tears. Who wanted to be an adult? This shit fucking blows. And I bet we all know that now. I’m scrolling through Facebook, and some people from high school have graduated from college; they have families and kids, really successful. They live the “dream”. They are the cliché, but I see it their eyes, that they are a flame burning out. They hate their life because they didn’t live it their way.

Tough luck. But who am I? I’m just the narrator here. The guy giving you the bullshit to eat. I am a lonely asshole that couldn’t be any happier! Let me remind you that I’m a pro bullshitter. So you have to believe me. My alarm on my phone rings, and I yawn and pry myself away from the only couch in my disgusting little apartment. I have to be with my therapist in thirty minutes. I walk over to rattle my cat’s food bowl after pouring some fishy-smelling pellets in there. The only thing that warms my heart, Bella, comes bouncing out of my room, purring as she rubs against my leg. I bend to pet her as I pour some water in her other bowl, too.

“I’ll be back, Bell. You be a good kitty,” I tell her.

I open the door, and she runs out, a flash of white. “Bella, you stupid—”

She stops at the door that leads outside, meowing loudly. I run over to pick her up and place her back in the apartment, “Stay!”

I hurriedly shut the door and step out into the briskness of the day. Time to go bullshit my therapist. I get bored if I’m not being a bullshitter. This life isn’t fun if people aren’t taking me serious even when I’m not taking me serious. My job…bullshit. I sit in a cubicle all day and sell insurance. It’s theeeeeeeeeee best ever. Believe me. I love it. And it pays my bills and my premium Tinder account which I use to ruin girl’s and guy’s life looking for a quick hookup. Oh boy, I can’t wait until later.

“Hello, Ty. I do hope you are having a wonderful today?” her stern gaze rolls over me as I stand in her doorway, her eyes boiling just like the coffee on her desk. I have to admit, she’s a bit unnerving, always. The way she looks at me, trying to peel back the layers I’ve covered myself with.

I step in, the room growing dimmer when Mrs. Tackovy spins a knob on her desk.

I sit, complaining. “We’re doing the dim thing again. Perfect. I barely turn the lights on in my apartment.”

“Ty,” she brings a napkin to her red lips, spitting out a piece of gum. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

“I’m grown, lady. What a stupid question.”

“No question is stupid. And stop your games. You can’t outplay me.”

Oh really? Challenge accepted.

“I used to be afraid of the dark,” I smile.

“When? Why?”

“I was a kid. Eight maybe. My mom locked me in this closet for hours. Wouldn’t feed me or give me water.”

Mrs. Tackovy leans forward, interested. Hook. Line. And sinker.

“Did this happen often? Every day?”

I shake my head. Riddling my face with glumness. Twisting it just right. Cracking my voice just enough. “Not every day. Only when she was drinking herself into oblivion. Which…was mostly every day. She’d pass out and forget I was in there until the next morning. I’d be late for school a lot. She would apologize, but never really mean it.”

“And how do you feel about this now?”

Ugh, this lady. That’s the thing with therapists. They always want to know more. Just accept my story and let me go on about my day. I’m only here because my stupid manager was concerned about me. I was playing with him, and my game was too strong I guess. This is mandatory, or I get fired for “mental relief”. Who the hell cares? Everyone in this world is psychotic. Some more than others, but still there’s a world’s worth of shit to muck through. It just so happens that everyone’s focused on mine.

I contemplate. “Hmmm…I guess I’m glad she’s dead. Never did much for me anyway.”

“You don’t miss her at all?”

“My mom?” I wave my hand at Mrs. Tackovy, dismissing her foolishness. “The only things I ever miss is my cat and catfishing people on Tinder Premium.”

“Rough, Ty. Rough,” she says, her voice ripe with a subtle hint of disgust at my answer. Why is she judging me for my relationship with my mother? Or my choice of what I do in my free time? Maybe she needs to speak with someone. I can’t forgive everyone. I can’t love everyone even if they did birth me. And catfishing is fun! Don’t believe me? Try it…

“I thought we didn’t judge here?” I ask.

Mrs. Tackovy shakes her head. “You misinterpret. I am sympathetic to your situation.”

“I hate sympathy.”

“Men like you always do.”

Oh, she is a player. This my fifth session, and I haven’t made her quit.

“You think I’m lying about my batshit crazy mom?” I stand slowly.

“Ty, I’m only saying you’re a patho—”

“Professional. Bullshitter. Listen, lady. I didn’t come here to get lectured by some bitch with a fancy education. Misses Knows It All, you don’t know shit about me!”

I turn to leave, and Mrs. Tackovy rushes up behind me, grabbing my shoulder. “Ty, I don’t want to intrude. I don’t want to make you feel alienated here. I just want to help as best as I can.”

“Even if I’m a bullshitter?” I spare her a glance.

“Ty, you’re never going to get better if you can’t face your problems head-on. You hide behind lies, tell yourself stories in your head so that even you can’t distinguish the truth.”

“So what if I’m lying? You think I want to be like everybody else. Fake happy? A picture on social media?”

“No, Ty. No. I think you want something to live for. I think you need help getting through the mess in your head so that you can move forward.”

I laugh so hard Mrs. Tackovy steps back, disturbed.

After an entire minute of exhaling through my nose vigorously with laughter, I stop and turn to her. “I’m not your son, lady. You can’t right your wrong with him through me. This world ain’t built like that.”

Her eyes grow wide. I can’t tell if it’s with rage or awe. “That is inappropriate, Ty.”

“Nothing’s appropriate. Your son is dead. A drug addict, right? Overdosed, yeah?”

She points at the door, her nails like knives. I know she wishes to slice through me. I do my research on the fancy smucks like her. They think their education is everything. Bullshit!

“Out! Get out.”

I open the door behind me, my lips curling upwards. “So, I guess you don’t wanna help me anymore?”

“I think you need a mental ward, not a therapist, Ty. Please leave. I’ll be sending an email to your place of employment. I suggest you check into a mental institution, so you have some place to live in a month.”

The nerve of her! Suggesting that I barely scrape by…

Hahahahaha! She’s absolutely right!

As I step out, she scurries forward to shut her office door behind me harder. I can only contain my smile until I make it to the elevator. When those doors close, I cry.

I’m a professional bullshitter. You have to believe me when I say I’m crying because living fucking hurts right now. It burns me deep in my belly because no one can hang with me. No one will give me a chance. No one will see that they, too, need to deal with their own bullshit before they can deal with mine. I cry sometimes for effect. Just to make it feel more real. Sometimes, I feel nothing at all. I’m just all ice baby, melting. The melting man walking down the street where people don’t see anything but their phones and feet.

 You have to believe me. You just have to because I’m the narrator.

I bullshit people for a living. I do this because it’s fun, and it’s only way I’ve survived out here this long.

It’s the only way for someone as depraved as myself to live.

Do you believe me? I really hope that you do.