March 4th, 2009

Incorrection

I don’t talk to myself. Unless startled by a bat or struck by a heavy object, I never feel a need to make any sort of sound when alone. Despite *many* defensive folks who have told me talking to oneself is a normal way to process information, I find it odd. It’s not like I don’t have plenty of commentary on every millisecond that goes by. But I can hear my own commentary just fine from, you know, inside my head. Also, I receive very little new information in this way; surprise surprise. Most of what I think is boring; no need to give it wider broadcast.

Actually, maybe this post is boring interior thoughts too. But slightly less boring than most interior thoughts. Anyway.

What is surprising is a new trend in my interior monologue, one that I really don’t think I thought up for myself. The past few months, screw-ups have been accompanied by the (silent) word “Incorrect” inside my brain. More recently, the word has come to have a visual of red block letters spelling it out: INCORRECT.

Harsh.

Lest you think I am having some sort of self-esteem spiral, the “incorrect” signal mainly flashes for small failures, ones that can be easily identified: opening the wrong software from my desktop, walking into the coat closet instead of the bathroom (not in own home), putting metal in the microwave. Doesn’t appear for major life decisions, wardrobe choices, consumer purchases–nothing with a lot of subjective leeway. A dozen people could have a different opinion on the story’s new ending or my new haircut, but you’re either standing in the coat closet or you aren’t.

Anyway, this post has little point, and probably should have remained interior, but I always find it curious when my brain does something all on it’s own without my bidding, and felt like sharing. Since this is likely *not* internally generated, I’m wondering if I picked it up from a book? A movie? This new mental quirk has no footnote. If you know where I stole it from, please share!

Note: My dislike of talking aloud to oneself should not be confused with the much more congenial concept of the “exterior monologue,” a term coined by the mighty AMT. The exterior monologue occurs when normal censors are turned off inside the brain, usually by nervousness, alcohol, or happy comfort with the audience. Then one just says everything that comes into one’s head. You’ve seen it happen, but it’s fun only in the last two contexts (usually), and even then only if you, like AMT, are thoroughly entertaining, inside and out.

Note 2: I also breathe silently and wear rubber-soled shoes; if it weren’t for clumsiness and cowardice, I would make an excellent stealth agent.

Just believe that I need you
RR

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So Much Love by Rebecca Rosenblum

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