I'm thinking about this story that I'm working on, about how when I was twelve, I used to masturbate like, twenty times a day and I'm not sure whether I should make it like--fiction--or like, a New Yorker-style essay piece.
There are white lies and black lies, and many shades of grey lies. Some lies are justified. Lies told out of kindness, lies that preserve dignity, lies that spare pain. Everybody's a liar, dear.