We all know one. A sketchball, I mean.
You know, that friend, who despite a lifetime of practice, is a terrible liar. You see right through them, but somehow they don’t realize their complete lack of lying finesse.
There are the sketchballs, however, that are completely convincing, and it’s only when they’ve forgotten to cover their ass on occasion over the course of a few years that you realize…
Holy shit I am one gullible motherfucker, and now I fucking hate you because you said you were going to stay in tonight but I totally just saw your lying ass out at the bar with that other girl that I wouldn’t be able to stand even if she were my fucking prosthetic leg!
Those might just be the worst kind. I’ve seen the ones that have been sharing every pathetic, embarrassing, or hateful thing you’ve ever said to her in confidence. And not just with anyone, no. It would be better, almost if she just splashed it across some random corner of the Internet where she knew you would never find it. At least then there’s some anonymity.
But no, she’s been gabbing about your shit with that creepy, weird circle of devil worshippers (I can only assume that’s what they are, because I really really really don’t like them) that make up her posse in her secret life that you were completely clueless about for years.
After that, it’s game over for you. It’s out, all of it. Everyone knows about your third nipple. And that you definitely sent flowers to yourself last Valentine’s Day so your other roommates wouldn’t know that “Ben Williams” from “New Hampshire” didn’t fucking exist (unless you count your weird fucking fantasy about the spaceship and the suit of armor). And if you think that conniving bitch spared that story about how your seventh grade crush asked you out as a dare and then threw a kickball at you, you’re a fool.
That’s much too juicy, because you were scarred for a long time. Like really, you seriously thought you might become a lesbian and that’s why you cut your hair so short. Or a nun. Whatever, you hated the male population.
On that note, cheaters are even worse and deserve to be castrated. And I don’t think I need to say any more about those low-lifes.
Stay cheeky, my friends. And don’t let those Sketchballs get the best of you.
(On that note: do as I say, not as I do. Or you’ll end up in therapy or worse, staring at your fat shrink’s shiny fucking head and gross, argyle sweater vests. That’s not as amusing as it sounds, I assure you. There are only so many bald jokes you can come up with in an hour before you want to fling yourself out of the bay window.)