LIEterature
I’ve been thinking about writing a memoir consisting of nothing but made up facts about my life. It’s a new subgenre I’m calling LIEterature, in which events are created to substantiate whatever points I’m trying to make about myself. It’s very similar to straight-up fiction — which is really just a bunch of lies dressed up as “stories” — except it has real bite: because this stuff is about me, and it really could have happened, even though it didn’t.
For example, that time when I crashed through the window of a burning building to save an old girlfriend from certain death … that was awesome. It had real action, real pathos, real excitement, and the fact that it never happened is kind of incidental. And how about that time when I fished a bag of drowning puppies out of the river and raised them into loyal Alaskan Huskies who ultimately saved me from a pack of wolves but died tragically in the effort? That’s really, really great stuff that never occurred. And there’s more. My life is rich with false memories. I’ve made and lost millions, been married six times, contracted epilepsy (and then cured myself with nothing but a strict regimen of meditation and sex with celebrities), started a chapter of Arsonists Anonymous (and then abandoned it after I got tired of the goddam meeting halls burning down), eaten a whole boa constrictor, invented a new color (Crellonge, The Color of Passion TM), started a new religion (Solopsismtology: Be Your Own God! TM).
I could go on. Sure, some people will say I’m “lying”, but really I’m just extrapolating, and I’m doing it for you. Would you want to read about my real life? Christ no. I sit in front of a computer for ten hours a day tapping out code, and that’s the exciting part of my week. Seriously, I’m doing you ingrates a favor.
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