Another Day, Another Liar

Scene: A crisp morning in a bustling city. You’re stepping out of your Manhattan apartment, freshly showered, feeling sharp and observational.

You step outside, stretch your arms toward the sky, and take a deep breath. The city noise begins immediately—footsteps, chatter, and honking cars. Just as you lower your arms, someone in a suit briskly brushes past you, muttering a rushed,

“Excuse me!”

You (half-smiling, mostly to yourself):

“Wow. What a great morning. Another day, another liar.”

You glance at the passing suit-wearer, who’s too rushed to notice your comment. Still smiling, you mutter as you start walking down the sidewalk:

“How many of these people are lying to themselves? Shoving themselves into jobs they hate, fake-smiling their way through life, just so they can sob into a whiskey glass at 50 and call it a midlife crisis. Inspirational.”

You turn a corner and see a tired man walking a small, fluffy dog. The dog stops to relieve itself on a patch of grass. You observe the owner standing there, leash in hand, looking blankly into the distance. As you pass, you tilt your head slightly toward him and say with exaggerated cheer:

“Wow, look at that. Another one of them slaving away for their dogs. Living the dream, huh?”

The dog owner gives you a confused look, but you’re already halfway down the block. Further ahead, someone wearing an overly tight shirt and a tie is adjusting their outfit awkwardly. You can’t help yourself. As you pass by, you smile warmly and say:

“How’s it feel to be choking yourself this morning? Fashion’s pain, right?”

Without waiting for a reaction, you keep walking. A street vendor offers you a flyer, but you wave it off with a polite “No, thank you.” The city buzzes around you, absurdities at every turn. Finally, you arrive at the bakery and step into the line. The person ahead of you at the counter is fumbling over pleasantries. The cashier smiles overly wide and says:

“Hi! How are you today? What can I get for you?”

You glance at the person in line behind you and stage-whisper to them:

“Here we go. An extra sixty seconds of my life, wasted on ‘Hi, how are you?’ As if that sign outside doesn’t already tell us what they sell. And let’s be real—they don’t actually care how we’re doing.”

The person behind you stifles a laugh. You continue, leaning in slightly, still speaking low enough for only them to hear:

“I mean, let’s streamline this. Skip the fake concern, I’ll tell you what I want, and let’s get on with our day. We’ve all got more lies to live, don’t we?”

The line moves forward. You get to the counter, and the cashier beams at you, full of sunshine and small talk energy. You give them a polite smile and say:

“Coffee, black, and a croissant. No pleasantries, thanks. Just efficiency.”