I talk to myself. I talk to myself a lot. Right now, I’m talking to myself. Last week, when we were talking about that movie, I was having a full blown conversation inside my head. Tomorrow, on that conference call, I’ll be talking to myself. I do it all the time. All the time.

I know. I know. I know. I must be bat shit crazy. I am out of my freaking mind, ridiculously, completely, entirely, unconditionally out of my bloody mind. I can’t even lie about it. Not even going to try.

What are these conversations I’m having with myself? They’re every conversation I’ve ever had with anyone, the conversations I only wish I’d had, the conversation we may have next week, and the conversations I wish I’d never had. Of course, it’s not verbatim the way it did or will happen. Each run through my head under goes subtle editing to make them the best possible versions and outcomes of these conversations.

I cannot emphasize enough that these are quite possibly the most mundane moments of my life, rehashed, reworked, and rewritten over and over in my head.  These are conversations with family, friends, acquaintances, co-workers, etc..  There’s no moment in life, real or imaginary, too significant for me to obsess on.

And even when there’s not the conversations playing in my mind, there’s what I like to call “The Narrator.”  Every moment of my life goes through my head like a story.  Not only that, but depending on what I’ve been reading, the style of the narration changes.  For example, if I’ve been reading “Pride and Prejudice”, The Narrator turns phrases in a way that reminds me of Jane Austen.  I’m sure you’re not aware that my life is the world’s most tedious novel yet being written.

The thing is, sometimes when it’s quiet, or I’m just bored, or I’m alone, or feel like I’m alone, I get into it, and I make facial expressions, sometimes move my lips, and even gesture.  I’ve caught myself, riding BART, walking down the street, sitting in my cube, and I’ve been terribly embarrassed.  But that’s nothing.

A couple of weeks ago, Wonder Dave, my amazing hair stylist who I adore, was cutting my hair.  He suddenly turned to me, and asked, “Are you whispering to yourself?”

That’s right.  My hair dude caught me talking to myself and called me out on it.


But hey, my hair looks good!

Just sayin’.

Corporate Debate Rages On

Today, my co-workers and I, from three separate offices, had an exhaustive debate over a critical matter. Then I dragged some friends into the discussion. All across the internet, associates and acquaintances both personal and professional asked that most vital question:

Who’s hotter?




Don’t give me any of this, ‘they’re the same guy’ bullshit!

Han Solo has the more stroke-able hair, and much more of a bad boy appeal.  He hangs out in the gnarliest dive bars in the galaxy.   Han clearly has the sexiest ride ever, the Millennium Falcon.

Indiana Jones is a little older, highly educated (PhD), scruffier, dirtier, and let’s face it, he’s got a nicer arms. Also, there’s the bull whip.

Han Solo stuck it to the Evil Empire, and I don’t mean Starschmucks. Indiana Jones opened up a can of whoop ark on some Nazis.

Indy’s daddy is pretty smokin’, but Han’s best friend is a Wookiee.

Han wears tighter pants; Indy’s got that hat.

It’s nearly impossible for me to choose.

Care to weigh in?