The Art of Talking…To Myself.

What to write?

I guess I’ll just type whatever comes to mind. Mostly useless shit.

Do you find this weird? Because I talk to myself all the time. My favourite conversations are often with myself. I constantly think it’s kinda narcissistic that I enjoy my own monologue more than participating in a dialogue…or a polylogue..? Multilogue?

No, I’m not gonna google it -.-

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Deal with it.

I’m obviously a shitty listener but that’s often because I’m not interested in what people say. I’m physically present, and that’s it. I’m quiet for the most part but I know when to insert smiles and polite laughs like a pro *wears sunglasses* *Inserts Deal with it meme*.

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And I usually reply with hmm’s and aah’s because any other reply would require effort. I hate it when I can’t convey what I’m thinking properly, like my brain short circuited and my tongue’s left to run loose. Conversation with me is bound to have a couple of awkward pauses. And a lot of nodding.

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In the bus I take from college, I’m usually looking out the window and trying to avoid stupid conversation. I often think of something so funny and try to hide my smiles to avoid looking like a serial killer. Oh, that’s what my lover calls me – a serial killer. Well, that was what he told me in his dying breath, right before I killed the light in his eyes and dumped his body in the river.

Hiding laughs and smiles are like hiding farts. It’s fucking hard.

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Me1: You and me both, buddy^

Me2: hey!!

Me3: Hehe…fart jokes are funny

Me1: No they aren’t! Your 18, like, fucking act your age.

Me3: *You’re

Me1: *Sigh.* Fuck off.

Me3: I tried to eat a bug yesterday

Me2: memes are my drugs.

Me3: Memes make my dreary existence worth living

Me1:

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Me2: hell yeah, me3!!!

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.

.

.

I need help.

I’m sorry to whomever is reading this. You have now seen the inner workings of a disturbed human being.

And now, I’m going to find you and kill you.

Tata.

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