I Wanted A Drink. There Were A Hundred Reasons Why A Man Will Want A Drink, But I Wanted One Now For The Most Elementary Reason Of All. I Didn't Want To Feel What I Was Feeling, And A Voice Within Was Telling Me That I Needed A Drink, That I Couldn't Bear It Without It. But That Voice Is A Liar. You Can Always Bear The Pain. It'll Hurt, It'll Burn Like Acid In An Open Wound, But You Can Stand It. And, As Long As You Can Make Yourself Go On Choosing The Pain Over The Relief, You Can Keep Going.
The Demon Is A Liar. He Will Lie To Confuse Us; But He Will Also Mix Lies With The Truth To Attack Us. His Attack Is Psychological, Damien. And Powerful.
Fib, N. A Lie That Has Not Cut Its Teeth. An Habitual Liar's Nearest Approach To Truth: The Perigee Of His Eccentric Orbit.
Imagination, N. A Warehouse Of Facts, With Poet And Liar In Joint Ownership.
I've Earned All These Years On My Face. I Don't Want To Be A Liar If In Five Or 10 Years I Do Get Some Botox, But Needles In The Face Scare Me, So I Don't Really Know If I Am Ever Going To Do That.
I'm Planning, You See, To Try To Confine Myself To The Truth. That's Hard For An Old, Inveterate Fantasy Martyr And Liar Who Has Never Hesitated To Give Truth The Form He Felt The Occasion Demanded.
