Talkin' to Myself

I know it's been a while, but a lot of stuff  has been going on. I won't talk about it because it makes me tired.

So:

I was mumbling to myself and wondered how long I've been talking to myself.  In fact, I said, "I wonder how long I've been talking to myself?"

And I sez, sez I, "Well, for as long as I can remember."

When I was around four, I recall my daddy walking into my playroom and asking was someone else there? I was puzzled. "No, just me."

I'd been pretending something or other and was changing my voice for different characters. That's a form of talking to one's self, I think.

I figure it may be because I was alone a lot to fend for myself in the play department. Being an only child until I was almost eleven made me use my imagination, which has come back to haunt all of you.

Talking to myself has probably saved lives. I can yammer on like I'm preachin' your funeral, and by the time I've stopped, I'm over whatever I was maddern far about.

It has made ideas click as far as "sayings" for my characters (sorrier than the bottom of a greasy paper sack is one of my favorites), as well as thickened plots.

Talking to myself has helped me remember whatever I've forgotten, too. "Now, where did I put that?" Surely you do that, too.

But mostly, I think, it's a form of entertainment when no one else is around. 

I'm pretty good company, after all.