Chatterbox

I talk to myself. Lots. Way more than I should.

My favorite time to talk to myself is when I'm cooking. I love cooking when Jared isn't around so that I can babble endlessly to an unseen audience about softening onions or weighing your ingredients for maximum control over your baked goods.

I used to think I was crazy, but that's giving myself a bit too much credit & denying real crazies their due. I'm not sprinting down the street nekkid with a plumber's helper sticking out of my butt, screaming about the aliens who communicate with me via my 'satellite'. I'm just muttering about toasting your spices.

I also talk to myself when I'm cleaning, and driving. The only thing that stops my running commentary is music. If I'm puttering around listening to music...that means someone is around & I mustn't be caught explaining the cleaning power of baking soda to the counter top.

I started my soliloquies when I was a kid. As an only child I was left with myself to chat with during the majority of my playtime. I didn't develop imaginary friends because...well...who needs 'em? My constant patter fought back the niggling feeling that i might be lonely. When my family got a dog, I started directing my conversations to her. She listened patiently & even nodded in agreement sometimes (when I would prompt her by waving a treat up & down).

So here I am. 30 years old & yapping to inanimate objects.

Oh well - in the pantheon of odd behavior, this must rank at about the same level as obsessively smelling your hair. Not that I would do that.
That's just fucking weird.