loving the sound of

I talk to myself a lot. Like, ten times a day for fifteen or twenty minutes. It's the obvious but rather unfortunate result of loving the sound of my own voice and consistently finding that I'm simultaneously the most interesting and intelligent person in any room I step into. (Except when I go to Girl Scout meetings. Damn, do those girls do some fascinating activities.) And, if you're an auto-conversationalist like I am, then you understand the grand satisfaction that comes with a lounge in your front porch easy chair, sipping from a tall glass of lukewarm goat's milk and having it out with yourself verbally. I and my incredibly good-looking self discuss politics, art... On occasion, I even challenge myself to a little game I call "Celebrity Fight Club®," where two Hollywood stars are chosen from the bunch and then pit against each other in an imaginary grudge match, where the winner is chosen according who (I or me) argues most convincingly that their combatant deserves it. (Recently, I've been picking Shia LaBeouf for both fighter’s spots - old, pussy Even Stevens Shia versus new, dickhead, half-beard-wearing Transformers Shia. As far as I’m concerned, whichever one dies makes the world a much more awesome, less half-beardish place to live.) My point, difficult to keep in focus as it is, is that talking to myself has always been a great way of getting to know one of my favorite people. Me.

If only women understood the magic of auto-conversations. I’d probably lose a lot less dates to Lady’s Room windows and family emergencies involving bears.

Stupid women.