I suspect that my inner monologue is more conversational than other people’s, so I’m going to throw this out there and see if I’m right.
I often find that, in my brain, I’m talking like there are two of us.
There’s a “Brianna” and there’s a “me” — so if I accidentally spill something everywhere, I’d go, “good one, Brianna,” in my head.
Brianna always fucks things up.
Brianna is an idiot.
But then if it’s a good idea, it’s the “me” voice taking the credit.
So today I was going through my bag and then got distracted by something else. Once I’d finished the distracting task, I turned back toward my bag and was like, “wait, what was I gonna get out of there?”
And when I remembered that I was looking for blush, I thought, “oh, I was gonna put blush on, which was cute of me.”
Who the hell am I explaining things to?
Chances are I’m just a nerd who is unwilling to own her embarrassing experiences, but in moments of paranoia I wonder how other people are narrating their lives to themselves and suspect that my method is less-than-normal.
The geekiest is when I narrate things that are happening as they’re happening: “she climbed the stairs with a sense of malaise. The soles of her shoes stuck to the beer-stained steps, and she decided she’d need to mop later.”
Get a life, you weirdo.
Stop talking in there.
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