You run into your doppelgänger at a café in Austin, Texas. She tells you she has just come back from Rome. You have been in this town all your life, if we exclude the 3-month excursion your pregnant mother took to New York while she still could.
But you want to impress this person, whose hair has highlights of blonde and whose crooked teeth were not corrected in youth, so you tell her you work as a professional art forger, specializing in Vincent van Gogh.
It leads to nothing. You never see her again; you never lie like that again.