“Stop talking to yourself!”
I looked over to the sofa where my sister lay and shot me a grim look that was no-doubt meant to follow her words through, deep into my poor little soul.
“I’m not talking to myself,” I replied. “Not out loud, at least.”
“Maybe not out loud in the literal meaning of the words but the body language you express as you walk about makes it quite clear that you are talking to yourself—and that in a rather high volume.”
“And what if I’m talking to myself?”
“It’s creepy. Why can’t you be normal?”
“And what do you think you are doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m writing in my journal. That is, when I can concentrate in-between your silent screams.”
“Can I read?”
“No.”
“Can anyone read?”
“No, it’s my journal and no one reads it but me.”
“Aren’t you then just as much talking to yourself as I am?”
“It’s not the same. It’s normal to write a journal but it’s not normal to talk to yourself. Why don’t you keep a journal like other civilized people?”
“I don’t want to. I don’t like to leave a paper-trail. It’s also more environmentally sustainable to talk to yourself. Lower carbon footprint.”
