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My friends say I exaggerate things. Like when I tell them that 66 is the worst road in the United States. They're typical response is, "Really, Nate? Is it REALLY the WORST road in the US?" I usually respond that it is, which I truly believe. They in turn, roll their eyes and dismiss my opinions as exaggerations.

But life isn't funny without exaggerations. Take for instance, my life, which seems to be fodder for all my stories. (Despite what you may believe, I have a highly evolved sense of self deprecation and although I write about my life all the time, I do not think my life is interesting. I just have an interesting perspective on my life.) My life is essentially boring. I sleep. I eat. I drink, mostly diet coke. I shit. I watch tv. Occasionally, I'll exercise. Oh, and I write, when I feel motivated. I work. (By work I mean play FreeCell)

There. I summed up the entirety of my daily existence in twenty seven words. If this was a dustcover biography in my future-yet-to-be-published book, it would be followed by a lot of white space. I do despise white space (it intimidates me, click back and read a couple entries about blank pages).

Take my job year long job as a bouncer. You would think that I had so many interesting and funny stories to tell. After a person asked my about it, I pondered for a few seconds. All I could muster was a horrid story about a drunk guy that probably (I didn't see it) got arrested for a DUI. That was responded with a horrid look of fear and disgust. That is when I conveniently took a sip from my ever present pint of beer, to save me from speaking more.

I sat a lot as a bouncer. On really uncomfortable bar stools. It took me about two weeks to master the correct slouch in which I could sit without letting one of my ass cheeks fall asleep. I obsessively checked my cell phone to check the time, hoping that more than the two minutes I knew had passed, had really passed by. I read books, newspapers, anything really I could get my hands on. I found myself reading the back of the label once, because it was more interesting that looking at the stairs (exaggeration, not the stairs, the label). I tried practicing meditation once. It failed miserably, when I realized that I had nodded off to sleep for about five minutes. I drank copious amounts of diet coke and water (sadly, not an exaggeration). This served several purposes. First was to probably rehydrate myself. Although I sat a lot, sometimes I would find myself moving a lot in very crowded rooms with very little air conditioning. (People, when you go out, personal hygiene is not a luxury. Shower. Deodorant. Cologne or perfume if you have the chance. On another note, I know there are some naysayers that are reading this, yes I know, all three of you, that think that diet coke does not hydrate a person. You are wrong. Diet cokes is like the ambrosia that the Greek Gods drank upon the peak of Mount Olympus.) Secondly, to over caffeinate myself. A lot the time, I would be staring, doing the same action, repeated about five million times (another exaggeration). Working, I probably could have been fine only knowing a few key phrases of English; "Yes, I work here," "The bathroom is downstairs," "There's a line to get upstairs," "ID," and "Move." Please was an optional attachment to any of the aforementioned statements (sadly, not an exaggeration). Thus, caffeination was desperately needed considering that my shifts ranged for ten to twelve hours of the mind numbing repetition. Lastly, the reason I drank a lot was, believe it or not, to make myself urinate a lot. Before you click the nice little cross shaped icon on the top of your browser in disgust, hold out to read through my logic. Working as a bouncer, I rarely got a break. During the first couple of hours, the traffic was slow and I didn't really need a break. When things got busy, I couldn't really leave my position in order to just get a breather. However, relieving myself in the restroom was the only break I got sometimes. It was my solace from the helter skelter of the bar scene. It was the only time when people were asking for me in the radio where I could legitimately tell them to wait because I have my penis in my hand. (yes, exaggeration)

So, yes. There. I exaggerate. Life is boring otherwise. I love it when I go to the movies and critics describe a movie as a slice of life. No, really it isn't. Firstly, a slice of my life would last about five minutes of the silver screen. A little montage of a strapping Asian man typing away at the computer, followed by a scene of him playing video games at home. In those two scenes alone, you have described about ninety percent of my day. (exaggeration, actually only about sixty percent) A slice of life isn't entertaining. No one's life is really entertaining. Horrifying? Perhaps. Boring? Most definitely. When I dream about my daily life and I wake unsure if I had a dream or I was just remembering the day I had, I call those dreams nightmares.

Exaggeration is the color to the otherwise bland canvas that I look at every day. It's one of the white lies I tell every day just to make the bitter pill we call life a little easier to swallow. I would think of another analogy here, but I'm kind of getting a throbbing headache right now. Exaggeration is the grease on my chain I call my life? Yeah….