God Hates Liars Quotes

When God takes out the trash, don't go digging back through it. Trust Him.

May she wake in torment!" he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. "Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—May she wake in torment!" he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. "Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!

A daughter of God knows that insecurity is not an excuse for doing evil to others, nor will God rest until caring for everyone is a lesson you learn.

We tend to be taken aback by the thought that God could be angry. how can a deity who is perfect and loving ever be angry?...We take pride in our tolerance of the excesses of others. So what is God's problem?... But love detests what destroys the beloved. Real love stands against the deception, the lie, the sin that destroys. Nearly a century ago the theologian E.H. Glifford wrote: 'Human love here offers a true analogy: the more a father loves his son, the more he hates in him the drunkard, the liar, the traitor.'... Anger isn't the opposite of love. Hate is, and the final form of hate is indifference... How can a good God forgive bad people without compromising himself? Does he just play fast and loose with the facts? 'Oh, never mind...boys will be boys'. Try telling that to a survivor of the Cambodian 'killing fields' or to someone who lost an entire family in the Holocaust. No. To be truly good one has to be outraged by evil and implacably hostile to injustice.

And in some sense, God also hates sinners. You might ask, “What happened to ‘God hates the sin and loves the sinner’?” Well, the Bible happened to it. One psalmist said to God, “The arrogant cannot stand in your presence; you hate all who do wrong.”3 Fourteen times in the first fifty psalms we see similar descriptions of God’s hatred toward sinners, his wrath toward liars, and so on. In the chapter in the gospel of John where we find one of the most famous verses concerning God’s love, we also find one of the most neglected verses concerning God’s wrath.4

We also hate lying because it is more than just fibbing, it is a personal slight. It is the liar’s way of saying, “I don’t respect you.” That is precisely what we tell God when we lie. Lying is our special way of saying to God, “I hate the truth. I hate you.

It grows inside you, poisonous and festering, and it tells you its name is Pride, but it’s a liar. Its name is Hate.

If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ but hates his brother, he is a liar; for whoever does not love a brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen” (1 Jn 4:20).

God. I hate that man so much it feels a lot like love.

I BELIEVE THAT we know much more about God than we admit that we know, than perhaps we altogether know that we know. God speaks to us, I would say, much more often than we realize or than we choose to realize. Before the sun sets every evening, he speaks to each of us in an intensely personal and unmistakable way. His message is not written out in starlight, which in the long run would make no difference; rather it is written out for each of us in the humdrum, helter-skelter events of each day; it is a message that in the long run might just make all the difference. Who knows what he will say to me today or to you today or into the midst of what kind of unlikely moment he will choose to say it. Not knowing is what makes today a holy mystery as every day is a holy mystery. But I believe that there are some things that by and large God is always saying to each of us. Each of us, for instance, carries around inside himself, I believe, a certain emptiness—a sense that something is missing, a restlessness, the deep feeling that somehow all is not right inside his skin. Psychologists sometimes call it anxiety, theologians sometimes call it estrangement, but whatever you call it, I doubt that there are many who do not recognize the experience itself, especially no one of our age, which has been variously termed the age of anxiety, the lost generation, the beat generation, the lonely crowd. Part of the inner world of everyone is this sense of emptiness, unease, incompleteness, and I believe that this in itself is a word from God, that this is the sound that God’s voice makes in a world that has explained him away. In such a world, I suspect that maybe God speaks to us most clearly through his silence, his absence, so that we know him best through our missing him. But he also speaks to us about ourselves, about what he wants us to do and what he wants us to become; and this is the area where I believe that we know so much more about him than we admit even to ourselves, where people hear God speak even if they do not believe in him. A face comes toward us down the street. Do we raise our eyes or do we keep them lowered, passing by in silence? Somebody says something about somebody else, and what he says happens to be not only cruel but also funny, and everybody laughs. Do we laugh too, or do we speak the truth? When a friend has hurt us, do we take pleasure in hating him, because hate has its pleasures as well as love, or do we try to build back some flimsy little bridge? Sometimes when we are alone, thoughts come swarming into our heads like bees—some of them destructive, ugly, self-defeating thoughts, some of them creative and glad. Which thoughts do we choose to think then, as much as we have the choice? Will we be brave today or a coward today? Not in some big way probably but in some little foolish way, yet brave still. Will we be honest today or a liar? Just some little pint-sized honesty, but honest still. Will we be a friend or cold as ice today? All the absurd little meetings, decisions, inner skirmishes that go to make up our days. It all adds up to very little, and yet it all adds up to very much. Our days are full of nonsense, and yet not, because it is precisely into the nonsense of our days that God speaks to us words of great significance—not words that are written in the stars but words that are written into the raw stuff and nonsense of our days, which are not nonsense just because God speaks into the midst of them. And the words that he says, to each of us differently, are be brave…be merciful…feed my lambs…press on toward the goal.

So tell me, giant philosopher, why we're not dukes," the Gray Mouser demanded, unrolling a forefinger from the fist on his knee so that it pointed across the brazier at Fafhrd. "Or emperors, for that matter, or demigods." "We are not dukes because we're no man's man," Fafhrd replied smugly, settling his shoulders against the stone horse-trough. "Even a duke must butter up a king, and demigods the gods. We butter no one. We go our own way, choosing our own adventure—and our own follies! Better freedom and a chilly road than a warm hearth and servitude." "There speaks the hound turned out by his last master and not yet found new boots to slaver on," the Mouser retorted with comradely sardonic impudence. "Look you, you noble liar, we've labored for a dozen lords and kings and merchants fat. You've served Movarl across the Inner Sea. I've served the bandit Harsel. We've both served this Glipkerio, whose girl is tied to Ilthmar this same night." "Those are exception," Fafhrd protested grandly. "And even when we serve, we make the rules. We bow to no man's ultimate command, dance to no wizard's drumming, join no mob, hark to no wildering hate-call. When we draw sword, it's for ourselves alone.

Men are going down to Hell like a flock, only because they hate God and Heaven. The carnal mind is enmity against God, and an unregenerate man would soon turn a Heaven into a Hell. Whoever goes down to the pit will have himself to blame for it, for no man will suffer damnation but for the one sin of rejecting the light of the knowledge of God which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. (See John 1:9; 3:18, 19; 1 John 5:9-12.) Jesus bore all the sins of the human race in His own body on the tree and the only sin which can now consign men to perdition is the sin of making God a liar and counting the blood of the covenant an unholy thing.

To the aangel of the church of Ephesus write, ‘These things says †He who holds the seven stars in His right hand, †who walks in the midst of the seven golden lampstands: 2†“I know your works, your labor, your bpatience, and that you cannot cbear those who are evil. And †you have tested those †who say they are apostles and are not, and have found them liars; 3“and you have persevered and have patience, and have labored for My name’s sake and have †not become weary. 4“Nevertheless I have this against you, that you have left your first love. 5“Remember therefore from where you have fallen; repent and do the first works, †or else I will come to you quickly and remove your lampstand from its place—unless you repent. 6“But this you have, that you hate the deeds of the Nicolaitans, which I also hate. 7†“He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To him who overcomes I will give †to eat from †the tree of life, which is in the midst of the Paradise of God.” 

That's it," Rayna said, pushing my laptop closed. It was about a week before the Rio trip, and she and I were at the kitchen island working on term papers. "Rayna!" I complained. "I could've lost my work!" "Please. You hadn't typed anything in the last hour. Consider this a one-person intervention: Who is he and why haven't you told me about him?" I felt the blush rise into my face. "Who is who?" "Seriously? You're going to play that with me? Clea, it's obvious. You're practically delirious; you've been a million miles away since we got back from-" She gasped and smacked my arm. "Oh! My! God! It's Ben, isn't it? I did interrupt something the night we got back from Paris. It's Ben, and you haven't told me because you didn't want me to say I told you so, when I so told you so! You loser!" She hurled the epithet with a grin of such complete delight that I almost hated to tell her the truth. "No! Rayna, it's not Ben. It's not anyone." "Liar." "Okay, it's not anyone real, I said, grimacing.

By this we know that we abide in him and he in us, because he has given us of his Spirit. 14And  t we have seen and testify that  u the Father has sent his Son to be the Savior of  v the world. 15 w Whoever confesses that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God. 16So  x we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us.  y God is love, and  z whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him. 17By this  a is love perfected with us, so that  b we may have confidence for the day of judgment, because  c as he is so also are we in this world. 18There is no fear in love, but  d perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not  a been perfected in love. 19 e We love because he first loved us. 20 f If anyone says, “I love God,” and  g hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot [1] love God  h whom he has not seen. 21And  i this commandment we have from him:  j whoever loves God must also love his brother.

God speaks to us, I would say, much more often than we realize or than we choose to realize. Before the sun sets every evening, he speaks to each of us in an intensely personal and unmistakable way. His message is not written out in starlight, which in the long run would make no difference; rather it is written out for each of us in the humdrum, helter-skelter events of each day; it is a message that in the long run might just make all the difference. Who knows what he will say to me today or to you today or into the midst of what kind of unlikely moment he will choose to say it. Not knowing is what makes today a holy mystery as every day is a holy mystery. But I believe that there are some things that by and large God is always saying to each of us. Each of us, for instance, carries around inside himself, I believe, a certain emptiness—a sense that something is missing, a restlessness, the deep feeling that somehow all is not right inside his skin. Psychologists sometimes call it anxiety, theologians sometimes call it estrangement, but whatever you call it, I doubt that there are many who do not recognize the experience itself, especially no one of our age, which has been variously termed the age of anxiety, the lost generation, the beat generation, the lonely crowd. Part of the inner world of everyone is this sense of emptiness, unease, incompleteness, and I believe that this in itself is a word from God, that this is the sound that God’s voice makes in a world that has explained him away. In such a world, I suspect that maybe God speaks to us most clearly through his silence, his absence, so that we know him best through our missing him. But he also speaks to us about ourselves, about what he wants us to do and what he wants us to become; and this is the area where I believe that we know so much more about him than we admit even to ourselves, where people hear God speak even if they do not believe in him. A face comes toward us down the street. Do we raise our eyes or do we keep them lowered, passing by in silence? Somebody says something about somebody else, and what he says happens to be not only cruel but also funny, and everybody laughs. Do we laugh too, or do we speak the truth? When a friend has hurt us, do we take pleasure in hating him, because hate has its pleasures as well as love, or do we try to build back some flimsy little bridge? Sometimes when we are alone, thoughts come swarming into our heads like bees—some of them destructive, ugly, self-defeating thoughts, some of them creative and glad. Which thoughts do we choose to think then, as much as we have the choice? Will we be brave today or a coward today? Not in some big way probably but in some little foolish way, yet brave still. Will we be honest today or a liar? Just some little pint-sized honesty, but honest still. Will we be a friend or cold as ice today? All the absurd little meetings, decisions, inner skirmishes that go to make up our days. It all adds up to very little, and yet it all adds up to very much. Our days are full of nonsense, and yet not, because it is precisely into the nonsense of our days that God speaks to us words of great significance—not words that are written in the stars but words that are written into the raw stuff and nonsense of our days, which are not nonsense just because God speaks into the midst of them. And the words that he says, to each of us differently, are be brave…be merciful…feed my lambs…press on toward the goal.

They'll be coming for you, Mr. Jones. They'll be coming any moment now. I hate to say this, but I must. It is my duty to warn you what will happen to you, an enemy spy. You'll be tortured, Mr. Jones—not simply everyday tortures like pulling out your teeth and toe-nails, but unspeakable tortures I can't mention with Miss Ellison here—and then you'll finish in the gas chambers. If you're still alive.' Mary clutched his arm. 'Would they—would they really do that?' 'Good God, no!' Smith stared at her in genuine surprise. 'What on earth would they want to do that for?' He raised his voice again: 'You'll die in a screaming agony, Mr. Jones, an agony beyond your wildest nightmares. And you'll take a long time dying. Hours. Maybe days. And screaming. Screaming all the time.' 'What in God's name am I to do?' The desperate voice from above was no longer quavering, it vibrated like a broken bed-spring. 'What can I do?' 'You can slide down that rope,' Smith said brutally. 'Fifteen feet. Fifteen little feet, Mr. Jones. My God, you could do that in a pole vault.' 'I can't.' The voice was a wail. 'I simply can't.' 'Yes, you can,' Smith urged. 'Grab the rope now, close your eyes, out over the sill and down. Keep your eyes closed. We can catch you.' 'I can't! I can't!' 'Oh God!' Smith said despairingly. 'Oh, my God! It's too late now.' 'It's too—what in heaven's name do you mean?' 'The lights are going on along the passage, Smith said, his voice low and tense. 'And that window. And the next. They're coming for you, Mr. Jones, they're coming now. Oh God, when they strip you off and strap you down on the torture table—' Two seconds later Carnaby-Jones was over the sill and sliding down the nylon rope. His eyes were screwed tightly shut. Mary said, admiringly: You really are the most fearful liar ever.' 'Schaffer keeps telling me the same thing,' Smith admitted. 'You can't all be wrong.

Hear my words, you wise men; listen to me, you men of learning. 3 For the ear tests words as the tongue tastes food. 4 Let us discern for ourselves what is right; let us learn together what is good. 5 “Job says, ‘I am innocent, but God denies me justice. 6 Although I am right, I am considered a liar; although I am guiltless, his arrow inflicts an incurable wound.’ 7 Is there anyone like Job, who drinks scorn like water? 8 He keeps company with evildoers; he associates with the wicked. 9 For he says, ‘There is no profit in trying to please God.’ 10 “So listen to me, you men of understanding. Far be it from God to do evil, from the Almighty to do wrong. 11 He repays everyone for what they have done; he brings on them what their conduct deserves. 12 It is unthinkable that God would do wrong, that the Almighty would pervert justice. 13 Who appointed him over the earth? Who put him in charge of the whole world? 14 If it were his intention and he withdrew his spirit[a] and breath, 15 all humanity would perish together and mankind would return to the dust. 16 “If you have understanding, hear this; listen to what I say. 17 Can someone who hates justice govern? Will you condemn the just and mighty One? 18 Is he not the One who says to kings, ‘You are worthless,’ and to nobles, ‘You are wicked,’ 19 who shows no partiality to princes and does not favor the rich over the poor, for they are all the work of his hands?

John sums up the matter bluntly. “Those who say, ‘I love God,’ and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars” (1 John 4:20). To truly love God includes loving others with the same love God has for us and the same love God has for them. This is part of what it means to be a participant in the divine nature. It is, in fact, what it means to be Christian (Christ-like). “Whoever does not love,” John wrote, “does not know God, for God is love” (1 John 4:8). Our capacity to love—to fulfill the greatest two commandments—is the definitive evidence that we are in fact abiding in Christ and participating in the perfect love of the triune God. Christians sometimes try to assess how they or others are doing on the basis of such things as how successfully they conquer a particular sin, how much prayer and Bible study they do, how regularly they attend and give to church, and so forth. But rarely do we honestly ask the question that Scripture places at the center of everything: Are we growing in our capacity to love all people? Do we have an increasing love for our sisters and brothers in Christ as well as for those for whom Christ died who are yet outside the church? Are we increasing in our capacity to ascribe unsurpassable worth to people whom society judges to have no worth? If there is any distinguishing mark of the true disciple from a biblical perspective, this is it!

Oh my God!” she yelled suddenly, and sat straight up. “What?” I’d been slowing for a red light but slammed on the breaks at her outburst. “I have something for you at home! I almost forgot!” “You . . . Jesus Christ, Rach! I thought we were about to get hit or I was about to run over someone!” “Well, get over it! We didn’t. Come on light, turn green, go, go, go, come on we have to get home!” She bounced up and down in her seat and looked at the empty streets around us. “Fuck, swear to God you’re going to be the death of me.” She stopped bouncing and turned to face me. Her dark blue eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms. “Keep being an asshole and you won’t get it.” I couldn’t help it. A massive smile crossed my face. I put the car in park, unclicked her seat belt, and pulled her across the seat to me. “There’s my fiery girl. You’re such a cute little monster when you wake up.” “I will cut you.” “I said cute.” “I hate you.” “Liar.

Why can’t you just admit you’re attracted to me, Rachel?” I asked into her ear as I pressed my body against hers. She swallowed audibly and shook her head as if to clear her mind before speaking. “Because I’m not? I’m not attracted to guys who look like they’re Photoshopped and who have bigger chests than most girls I know.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed loudly and had to pull back slightly when the movement and being pressed up against her made my jeans shrink a size. “Liar.” Even if her voice hadn’t gone all breathy, I still hadn’t forgotten her blush. “And I really hate your tattoos.” “No you don’t.” “And your lip ring and your eyes. And your hair, it drives me nuts. You really need to cut it. Or better yet, one morning you’ll wake up and I will have shaved it off while you slept.” I smiled and let my nose run along her jaw, loving the quick breath she took and how her eyes fluttered shut when I did. “Good to know your favorite things about me, Sour Patch. And if you’re wondering . . . everything about you is my favorite.” “They’re not. And I wasn’t.” “Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night. But do you think we could wrap up this meeting about how much you want me? I really need to go buy about a dozen pints of ice cream so I can work at not looking Photoshopped anymore.” Her eyes snapped open and darkened as she narrowed them at me. “God, you’re annoying.” “And you’re keeping me from eating.” “I’m not the one who isn’t dressed.” Touché. “I think I should go like this. Maybe there will be a woman there who appreciates the way I look.

If someone says, ‘I love God,’ and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen, how can he love God whom he has not seen? And this commandment we have from Him: that he who loves God must love his brother also.” (1 John 4:20–21)

If someone says, “I love God,” but hates a Christian brother or sister, that person is a liar. —1 John 4:20

Do you know what it was like in that goddamn hellhole of a prison?” The words were torn from his throat. Caleb shook his head. “I wouldn’t presume to say I did.” “There were rats the size of house cats. Toward the end we ate them just to stay alive.” Caleb closed his eyes against an image that would never leave him. “I’m not sorry that I let you live,” he said after a brief silence. Joss glared at him in rage. “You’d put me through that hell all over again, wouldn’t you?” he demanded. “Damn you, you would!” “If it meant your life? You’re damned right I would. I’d put you through it a thousand times.” He paused and drew a deep, tremulous breath. “Joss, step into my boots for a minute. Go back to that day. Remember the screaming, and the cannon fire, and the sound of bullets whistling past your head. This time you’re the one that’s on your feet, and I’m lying on the ground with my arm gone. I ask you to shoot me—hell, I beg you to shoot me. What are you going to do?” Joss’s throat worked as he swallowed. He hesitated for a long time as a variety of emotions moved in his face. Then he said, “I’d shoot you.” “You’re a liar,” Caleb answered. The giant, the man he’d loved and admired from the first day he’d known what it meant to have a brother, glared at him. “God damn you, Caleb—” “You wouldn’t have been able to kill me, because I’m your brother. Because you taught me to ride and shoot, because the blood in your veins is the same blood that runs in mine. You would have done exactly what I did, Joss, and somewhere inside yourself you know it.” Joss shook his head as if to fling off an image. “You listen to me,” he yelled, waggling a finger in his brother’s face. “I hate you. Do you hear me? I hate your miserable Yankee guts, and I plan to go right on hating you from now until they put me in a box and throw dirt on top of me!” The

In Matthew 25, Jesus makes it clear that whatever we do or fail to do to others, we do or fail to do to Him (see Mt 25:40). We cannot separate our love of God from love of neighbor. First John 4:20 says, “If any one says, ‘I love God,’ and hates his brother, he is a liar.” It was Dorothy Day who made this passage come alive for me when she said, “We love God as much as the person we like the least.” Think about the person you like the least. Get a good image of that person. It could be someone that you work with; it could be someone who hurt you, or a person that you cannot even stay in the same room with. As you are thinking of this person, you are probably thinking about how much you can’t stand to be around him. Maybe your blood pressure just rose a bit. Well, that is how much you love God!

A verse in a letter addressed to Titus illustrates this perfectly. Angered by some of the false teachings emerging from the island of Crete in the Mediterranean, which Titus is busy trying to fix, the apostle Paul declared, “One of Crete’s own prophets has said it: ‘Cretans are always liars, evil brutes, lazy gluttons.’ This saying is true” (Titus 1:12–13). Believe it or not, I’ve never once heard a sermon preached on this passage. And yet, if these words are truly the inerrant and unchanging words of God intended as universal commands for all people in all places at all times, and if the culture and context are irrelevant to the “plain meaning of the text,” then apparently Christians need to do a better job of mobilizing against the Cretan people. Perhaps we need to construct some “God Hates Cretans” signs, or lobby the government to deport Cretan immigrants, or boycott all movies starring Jennifer Aniston, whose father, I hear, is a lazy, evil, gluttonous Cretan. I’m being facetious of course, but my point is, we dishonor the intent and purpose of the Epistles when we assume they were written in a vacuum for the purpose of filling our desk calendars with inspirational quotes or our theology papers with proof texts. (For the record, Paul told Titus to find among the Cretans leaders who were “blameless,” “hospitable,” “self-controlled,” and “disciplined,” so obviously he didn’t apply the stereotype to all from the island.) The Epistles were never intended to be applied as law.

¶ If a man says, I love God, and yet hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen, how can he love God whom he has not seen? 21 And this commandment we have received from him, That he who loves God ought to love his brother also.

A growl rips free of my chest as I grip her hair. “Feckin’ Christ Jesus,” I groan. Her lips go still on my pulse. … Shit. I immediately loosen the fist tangled in her locks. Did I do something wrong? Something definitely seems wrong. It’s obvious in the way she stiffens. “What did you say?” she whispers, her breath hot on my skin. Fuck. Fuck. What did I do? Was it the whole thou shalt not use the Lord’s name in vain business? Maybe Lark is super religious. I can’t remember if she or Sloane mentioned if the boarding school was some strict Catholic thing. Nuns. Were there nuns? I swallow. “Uh, I said ‘feckin’ Christ Jesus.’” “Growlier,” Lark snaps. “Feckin’ Christ Jesus.” There’s a single heartbeat of stillness in the world. And then Lark has backed away out of reach, the heat of her body gone, a chill left behind on my skin. Both of her hands cover her mouth but they can’t mask the shock in her eyes. Shock and … fury. “Oh my fucking God,” she hisses into her fingers. “What …? Was it the Jesus?” “No. No, it was not ‘the Jesus,’” she says with air quotes and a sneer as she leans close enough to jab a single finger into my chest. “It was ‘the Batman.’ The Budget Batman.” Lark takes a step back. Crosses her arms. Raises a single brow. My eyes narrow to thin slits. The words come out as a venomous hiss when I say, “Blunder Barbie.” “Oh. My. God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” Lark says, flapping her hands like she’s trying to get any residue of me off of her. “You had your tongue in my mouth.” “I’d hate to remind us both, Blunder Barbie, but you kissed me.” “And you let me. You fucking knew it was me.” “Clearly, I did not, or I would have taken my chances with the fire escape.” “There is no fire escape.” “Pre-feckin’-cisely.” Lark rolls her eyes before they sharpen on me in a lethal glare. “You are such a liar. You were all up in my face that night. With a flashlight. One that you smacked on my head.” “Your face was plastered with makeup. And I didn’t smack—” “My concussed head. Where I needed fucking stitches which I never got because I had to walk home, thankyouverymuch. And then you growled at me like some rabid trash panda that was about to gnaw my leg off and tossed me in the trunk of your car, you fucking psycho.” “Oh I’m a feckin’ psycho, am I? You’re the one who jumped from a moving vehicle after you rammed some poor bloke into a lake and then fake teared up when I dropped his blimmin’ body at your feet. And they weren’t even good fake tears. They were sarcasm tears,” I snarl. I take a step closer and bend to meet her eye level, dabbing my eyes as I clear my throat for my best candy-sweet vocal impression. “Boo-hoo, I’m Blunder Barbie and I just feckin’ killed a man. My bad. But don’t worry, I’ll just get someone else to fix it so I can toddle on back to my perfect little life.