And there you have it. Me. Jan the liar. Voted—in a dazzling bit of mean-spirited group creativity—most likely of her graduating high school class to have flammable pants. So yes, I’m used to not being believed. I’m used to feeling stupid and humiliated, caught in the web of my own fantasies, mocked, passed over, and rejected, usually for reasons entirely in my own control. Except that—painfully, inexplicably—they’re not. I lie. I can’t help it. I don’t mean to. Not usually. I just prefer the version of my life that I make up, but then I say it, not out of malice or the desire to trick or
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