Fabricating Imaginary Infrastructure

There I was at the grocery store, just chatting away and all excited about getting what I need for Turkey Day. "Do we want to do the homemade cranberry sauce or the canned stuff" "Do you like marshmallows on your sweet yams?" "Yes, I love that! So let's get some marshmallows." I was having a high old time when I suddenly became aware that this entire dialogue was actually a monologue. I was talking to myself. And ANSWERING.

I've been doing it for years and years. It's my dirty little secret and a habit I'm afraid I may not be able to break. I will be an old biddy in a poorhouse yapping away all day long and they will think I am totally demented. What they will fail to realize is that I was that way all along.

If I'd had a family and children and a rewarding career, maybe I would not have had to develop such a companionable inner life. But I never had that so what I have instead is a Jolly Time all by Myself.

It's just so embarrassing when I get caught! Like I really like to TALK in the shower. Sure, ORDINARY people just sing in there, but I have entire murder mysteries. I speak in foreign accents, too. "Thatsa Right, Guiseppe, I buried-a the body in-a da Olive Grove!" British Poufs and Aussie Croc-Wranglers chat back and forth about silly and inconsequential things. Jimmy the sniveling lickspittle likes to chime in with this bizarre statement, "Oh, NO! Not the BIG LOG, Eddie!"

Once I was in the shower and I caught myself saying, "Blood and Gore! I'll rip him from limb to limb and kick his dead body all the way to the ocean! AND I'll come to his funeral in a RED DRESS!"

It was then that I realized the neighbors can hear every word through the hollow echoing tile walls and floor. It even dawned on me that although I make fun of Invisible Guy and Obsessive Compulsive Girl and Night Terror Guy, they may just be saying the same things about me..."There goes Imaginary Friend Girl!"