Tell Her About It?
The song is right. Tell her. Tell her everything. [Ed.: using a little diplomacy and tact can't hurt.]
I did that. And here I am on a Friday night looking for a Love Boat\ rerun or some other trope from my stellar history of single living.
Because Gloria and every other pararphraser of John 8:32 is also right. The truth set us both free, mostly because the truth pissed her off. It was the wrong answer and yet it was right. It was real.
GILLIAN: Who are you?
KIRK: Who do you think I am?
GILLIAN: Don't tell me. You're from outer space.
KIRK: No, I'm from Iowa. I only work in outer space.
GILLIAN: Ah! Well, I was close. I mean I knew outer space was going to come into it sooner or later.
KIRK: The truth?
GILLIAN: I'm all ears.
KIRK: Ha, ha, ha...
GILLIAN: Ha, ha, ha...
GILLIAN: Well, 'Admiral', that was the briefest dinner I've ever had in my life, and certainly the biggest cockamamie fish story I've ever heard.
KIRK: You asked.
And... scene. Curtain drops. No regrets though. Can't hate on the truth or where it led. Can't hate myself for going with my truth. instead of trying to guess the preferred answer. Action: consequence. So it goes