Tag Archives: talking to myself

You Know What I Mean?

I talk to myself.

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,



Too Self-Conscious About Choosing An Appropriate Title.

I am a very self-conscious person.  It’s one of my most prevalent personality traits.  I would call it a personality flaw, but I refuse to give it that title because that would give it an inherently negative connotation.  Self-consciousness, in my opinion, can be a flaw in certain contexts.  But in others, it can save your life.  Or at least your reputation.

I have a distant admiration for people with no self-consciousness.  They are the ones who are truly carefree: I call them the I Don’t Give A Fuck-ers.  They are the kind of people who, when presented with some kind of task that some might perceive as potentially embarrassing or psychologically damaging, will respond with a statement akin to, “I’ll do it, cuz I DON’T GIVE A FUCK!” A typical scenario might play out like this (especially after a few drinks):

“Alright, who’s gonna shove this porcupine up their ass?”
“Oh, God, not me!”
“I’m sure as hell not doin’ that shit!”
“Oh yeah?  Well, I’ll do it…cuz I DON’T GIVE A FUCK!”
“…who invited that guy?”

I could never have that attitude towards life because my self-consciousness holds me back.  However, I don’t mind that.  In fact, I embrace my self-consciousness, because it keeps me grounded.  You show me a guy who’s really self-conscious, and I’ll show you a guy who’s never once gotten hammered at a party and tried to fuck the couch.  Why?  Because your self-consciousness keeps you in check, and keeps you from doing such ridiculous things. (Plus, let’s be honest: how embarrassing would it be to know that the couch lasted longer than you did?)

Does that mean I live a somewhat sheltered life due to that trait?  Probably.  Hell, I feel nervous when I start rocking my head back and forth at a rock concert–like everyone’s watching ME rock my head like a doofus.  I know it’s totally irrational, but I can’t help it.  That’s the negative side of it coming out.

One of my favorite personality traits (although I find it really weird to call it one of my favorites) is my tendency to be somewhat delusional.  And when you pair that up with self-consciousness, it makes for one hell of a mental tornado.  One night, I was sitting in a coffeeshop writing about how big of a loser I am (a common occurrence), and I somehow delved into this weird inner psyche in which I felt that every other person in the coffeeshop was staring at me–making my self-consciousness increase–and harshly judging me, which was caused by my delusions.  When I go back and read what I wrote when I was in that mindset, it’s actually strangely interesting: my usual polished handwriting looked much more rudimentary, as if a seven-year-old had gotten hold of my pad of paper and scrawled all over the pages with a pen.  Misspelled words abound (which, truth be told, are very uncommon for me).  My thoughts spiraled into a black abyss of negativity.  It didn’t look like MY writing.  Yet, it was.  And as I was writing/carving those words, I felt connected with whatever inner psyche was at work.  Possibly more so than ever before.

Being delusional, in my opinion, is just another way of saying I have a kickass imagination.  Either that, or it’s just proof of my deep-ridden self-centeredness.  I like to play out events in my head–I live vicariously through myself within my imagination.  I will take something that happened in real-life, and then re-interpret it into a completely different event based on making myself act differently in my head.

For instance, if I was performing at a stand-up comedy show, and during my act an audience member were to shout some sort of insult towards me, the real-life me would simply brush it off and try to ignore it.  But the version of me that lives up in my head would be going fuckin’ nuts: pacing around, breaking beer bottles, like this:

(crack of beer bottle) “C’MON, MOTHERFUCKER!”
“You don’t have the BALLS!”
“Oh, I’ll do it, cuz I DON’T GIVE A FUCK!”
(ensuing brawl erupts)

I’d never do that in real-life, but it sure is fun playing that out in my little fantasy world.  It’s great, because I’m like a badass in my fantasy world.

In real-life, I’m just a guy who talks to himself all the time.

Until next time,