An odd thing to be excited about but that’s not a quality I would deny.

Food-sampling, museum visiting, earthly-space “exploration”, merry festivals, swimming, text and video editing. Delightful activities more than sharing a cuppa with a sob story and a mean-spirited complaint which cannot be that horrific as recounted with the subject still alive to tell the tale.

What is the purpose of exaggeration other than to tug at strings in a not so subtle but manipulative fashion? Under the embellishment is a long-vein of fear that those by its side, will reveal the wrongness of its tint.

As if you didn’t already know with exhalation of each breath.

Is it loyalty of friends that’s in doubt or an ability to accept truth and of penitence?

If self-image is the only thing that causes you to fret, then telling tall tales is contrary to common-sense expectation; only with a modicum of attention is it startlingly obvious—overriding mundaneness made peerless.

That would not be needed if the account was reasonable enough on its own to brush sincerely and vividly—otherwise, there is nothing more to be said or done except uncredited useless platitudes.

To that end, I’ve no time left to give, having filled them with activities. I’d rather be alone, by myself and reflecting upon lonely faces at a train station.

Half an hour early and deciding if this is something to brag about or evidence still of an idle time. This or that — I caved not for stodgy tall tales.