You Know What I Mean?

I talk to myself.

All the time.

ALL THE TIME.

And I have no shame whatsoever in admitting that.

I never understood why people aren’t really that willing to reveal that they talk to themselves, whether in public or not.  It’s not like it’s a particularly BAD thing.  I don’t get it.  Is it wrong to talk to yourself?  I say, no.  Then again, most of the people who believe that are people who talk to themselves.  They’re the people who you see frantically walking along the streets, mumbling to themselves, “There’s nothing wrong with me!  No, nothing!  Why would there be anything wrong?!  That’s crazy!  Not me—THAT is what’s REALLY crazy!  HA!”

I’ve been talking to myself ever since I was a young kid.  I had friends and all, but when I was young I really enjoyed talking to myself, because it’s kind of like being your own best friend.  However, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that being your own best friend sucks when you need to borrow $20 dollars.

“Can I borrow $20 bucks, me?  Well, I dunno.  I still haven’t paid myself back from the last time.  How can I trust me with that kinda money?”

As I’ve been getting older, I’ve been trying to figure out my reasoning for it.  Why do I talk to myself?  What’s the psychology behind it?  What’s my motivation?  So far, nobody has attempted to help me, because I’m usually shouting those questions from the street corner.  But that’s okay, because I finally realized one day:

I talk to myself because I hate talking to other people.

Don’t get me wrong—I do like talking to some people.  Some people are funny, engaging, intelligent, articulate—in other words, enjoyable to talk to.  But there are some other people who are just fucking excruciating.  I’ll give you an example of the kind of thing I mean.

Have you ever been talking to somebody, and they are just blathering on and on about the most meaningless, banal, ridiculous, uninteresting minutia in their lives?  And they won’t stop talking about it—the mailman’s dog, their friend Sara that you’ve never met, the latest Geico commercial, whatever springs to mind—it just keeps going on and on and on and on, and you can’t get out of the conversation, so you just have to stand there and take it until they finally run out of things to flap their gums about, but they aren’t running out of steam anytime soon, and you’re forced to endure the unrelenting barrage of stupid bullshit, and then you suddenly have this moment of clarity, in which everything falls silent within your mind; in which you are one with yourself; in which you are connected with all that surrounds you, and all you can think of is, “I HATE YOU WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING, AND I WANT YOU TO DIE.”

And yet, they keep on chattering.  On and on and on and on and on.  By this point you aren’t even paying attention to what they’re saying anymore.  You’re just focusing on the bridge of their nose, because that way it looks like you’re listening to them when you really aren’t, and you just start thinking to yourself.

“Oh my God, they’re still talking.  Jesus fuckin’ Christ, did they just finish a year-long vow of silence or something?  They won’t shut up.  This person is determined to keep talking.  I want to kill them.  How could I kill them without getting caught?  Surely there’s got to be SOME way…I know, I’ll stab them with an icicle!  Then the icicle would melt.  No fingerprints.  No murder weapon.  They’re dead, and I’ll have some fuckin’ peace and quiet around here!  It’s PERFECT!”

That’s why I talk to myself.  To keep myself away from attempted murder.

But, lately, it’s been starting to get a little weird on me (gee, ya think, Riley?).  I mean, I’m not crazy…at least, I don’t think I am…

Okay, maybe I am, a little bit.  But there is a difference between talking to yourself and having conversations with yourself.  That’s fucking scary, more so because I think it’s starting to happen to me.  A few days ago, I was talking to myself, and I actually caught myself ending a sentence with the phrase, “you know what I mean?”

Oh, boy.  There ain’t no way I’m gettin’ outta this one without being dragged away by men in white coats.  Because regardless of how I answer, I’m pretty much fucked sanity-wise.  If I say yes, then I’m having a complete two-sided conversation with myself, and I’m totally bonkers.  But on the other hand, saying no might be even worse.  Think about it:

“You know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t, me.  I’ll have to explain that a little better, because I’m having trouble following my own fucking logic.”

You know what I mean?

Until next time,

–Riley

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5 responses to “You Know What I Mean?

  1. I understand perfectly, Riley.

  2. Ooh, me too! Rileys are just very keen and intuitive that way.

    Oh but Riley, you forgot to sign! Remember next time, Riley.

    –Riley

  3. rush is fuckin awesome you guys

    — also riley

  4. Well, aren’t we just clever as can be?

    Yes, we are.

    –Riley

  5. There’s a fucking crazy lady that just walks up and down my street shouting to an invisble friend and gesticulating wildly. She’s properly mental, I guess. She looks homeless.

    But I talk to myself:

    ”it’s kind of like being your own best friend.”

    It is! I love talking to myself. I’m everything I look for in a friend. Seriously though, I like being alone and usually I just ‘think-talk’ to myself. But occasionally it spills out— it’s useful I think, to weigh up different point of an arguemnt.

    I also agree with:

    ”I talk to myself because I hate talking to other people.”

    I’m not the kind of guy that has close friends. I’m not very social at all. I like people, in small doses. I have aquaintances and I do genuinely love conversations if they’re interesting, but it’s pretty rare. One of the reasons I consider my internet buddies my best friends (because my best friend moved to australia and is now an internet friend) is because although we obviously don’t hang out there is some intelligent conversation there.

    You, for example, are the only guy my age I know that likes a lot of the stuff I like, like stand up and books. And talking to yourself.

    When I went to Munich I ended up in a cafe with a bunch of strangers. The conversation was brilliant and interesting. And that’s when I said to myself ‘shit, I prefer talking to strangers.’

    Coincidentally most of my ‘heroes’ are slightly deranged loners.

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