Three days into the trip and I was having a great time, until this moment. From here on out its nothing but strangers until I get to Jacksonville. I am here on the beach alone. My car, this blog and the voice recorder I bought shortly before leaving are the constants. I am in the middle of conversing with a naive blonde. I’ve tuned her out five sentences ago when I began lying. I am not talking about a big lie. I am rationalizing this as telling a vacation lie. I am not even talking to her anymore I am justifying my lies to myself in a very unconvincing fashion. Why did I say I used to be a pilot? I know why, I wanted to get in her pants. Its working she’s eating it up. I am not even here anymore though. She’s talking to Maverick I have retreated into my own head and subconsciously I have begun to bury my feet in the sand as she asks for more lies about my time in the Navy. I no longer feel like answering. This isn’t fun anymore. The more the lies build up, the more securely I anchor my feet in the sand. The war has begun and the internal dialogue grows louder. Everything I am is saying leave. My Saboteur wants to keep talking he loves the signals where are getting. My ego and self-respect hate him. I am getting jealous of the fictional me because the real Orlando got only a moderate a polite response. The moment I vomited a few lies and could almost hear her hum “Highway to the danger zone” in her head. The moment I became Tom Cruise, I also became the loser who just lied because I didn’t feel I was good enough. The way she is looking at me know in contrast to how she looked at me then reaffirms that. “So I am here at my folks place for the weekend with a couple of friends. We were gonna have a couple of drinks I was wondering if you wanted to come by later?” That invitation isn’t for me and the only way out is another lie” I have to be in Charleston tonight I got a couple of buddies down there. It’s my friend’s wedding… I would love too otherwise.” I can’t believe how easily I lie. I am not a player. Those high fives from the tales of wild nights are undeserved. There are far more nights where I go home alone. Even when I have an occasional bed warmer, it isn’t real. For the envy I may inspire is tempered by the self-loathing for my role as an illusion or an escape and hers of being an object and a distraction for my loneliness. I return to the car and head off. Later I stop to eat. Standing in Subway I observe a couple in front of me in line; he teases her, she laughs mouths I love you too and as his hand reaches the small of her back. It cuts with the reality that that touch was more intimate than any sexual escapade I have had in the last two years.