What do I say when I talk to myself? I didn't always talk to myself, at least not out loud. Then again talking to yourself internally is basically what thinking is, or part of what thinking is, so that's a useless distinction. At some point I began to verbalize some of my thoughts, for unknown reasons, in the form of a dialogue which is really more of a monologue. It's a monologue in the sense that only one of my internal voices is actually talking (via the mechanism of the real me); there is another me or aspect of me but that me is just sort of nodding and agreeing, or is just there to listen and be a sounding board I guess. I say dialogue because although this other me is quiet, either as a mute but supportive witness or as the frequent target of invective, I feel this diffident me could speak up at any time but for whatever reason chooses not to. Both of these personas or whatever they're called are separate from the real, actual me, who is usually walking down the street or making toast or something and is vaguely embarrassed by this one-sided conversation going on, and of course it goes without saying that it's the real me who is actually physically speaking, as a mouthpiece for the talkative me I already mentioned. The real me, the flesh and blood me, isn't exactly powerless to stop this conversation but usually lets it go, as it provides the same somewhat shameful satisfaction that scratching an itch a little too pleasurably carries. A compulsion indulged.

So what is the garrulous one saying then? Sometimes it's mundane, like a commentary on what I'm doing at the moment. Other times it's like a hectoring or scolding, or a vapid form of pep talk:

Why?
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Take it easy, jesus fucking christ. What is your problem pray tell?
Never do that again, I'm telling you, I mean it.
You're fine, no no you're fine, don't worry. Don't worry. La la la.
I knew you wouldn't do it. Fuckin' A, what a joke.

Now, I imagine this whole phenomenon is common, but it's interesting to think about because "talking to yourself" is too simple a description for what's going on. In my case there are definitely three distinct participants -- the talker, the listener or object of scorn, and the flesh and blood me who is the sort of vessel for this scenario. I thought of all this because Patrick and I were talking about Mary Robison's Why Did I Ever, a novel in which the protagonist talks to herself a great deal, and what she says to herself sounds real to me, and this recognition is part of what makes it so funny.