Dear everyone I may have lied to,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really, truly sorry. Really.

What, do you think I’m lying again?

You think that just because I lie, it makes me insecure?

Well, I’m only insecure because of your shallowness, and I am not trying to play the victim card here, so quit pointing fingers at me, stop staring, and leave me alone.

I already said that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everyone I’ve ever met—because I’ve probably given them an earful of every kind of lie there is, big and small, half truths based on reality and farfetched ones based on who I wish I could be. But that doesn’t matter now, because I have learned a life lesson: “The naked truth is way better than a really well dressed fib” (or something like that).

I suppose that the damage is done though, which means that I have to settle for being average me in a place where nobody trusts you (that really makes me regret ever being a liar).

If only I knew the life a liar would be such a lonely road.

Sincerely,
Maria DiCaprio

p.s. I may have lied about my name, too.