I’m a horrible liar. In fact, I’m probably the worst liar that ever existed on the face of the planet. The problem is that lying makes me nervous, and when I’m nervous, I stumble over words and ramble on and on and make pretty much no sense at all.

I’ve had this problem ever since I was a small child. When I was seven, I spilled nail polish onto my mother’s new carpet and then tried to clean it up with a mixture of nail polish remover and 409. Luckily I did not kill myself and the rest of the occupants of my house. (I’m just guessing here, but that doesn’t sound like a super safe combination in retrospect.) The result of my experimental clean up left a streak of neon green in a carpet that was a sandy-brown color everywhere else.

Needless to say, that was one occasion where I felt the need to lie. Unfortunately, no matter how many times I denied having any knowledge of how the carpet turned that distinct shade of chartreuse, my constant babbling and wide, avoiding eyes gave it all away.