I really like my own thoughts. When I read something I wrote ages ago, I always think to myself, 'Man, that's really cool, I really relate to this person. I relate so much to this person that I kind of wish I was so brilliant to write something so witty/deep/intelligent/insert other complimentary adjective here' That's usually when I realise that person is me. Then it gets all awkward in my head. Half of me is really pleased, but the other half gets all offended, like 'I can't believe you didn't even recognise something you wrote. Not only are you the most absent-minded person alive, but you are undermining our talent.'
To which the chipper part of me will reply sarcastically, 'Oh, I can't believe I don't continually think about how good we are, it seems like such a shame, doesn't it, that not even I can recognise our talent.'
This generally goes on for a little while before I catch onto the fact that parts of my consciousness are arguing over something ridiculous, and I shush them up.
This is when I consider that maybe I'm a little crazy. A part of me will suggest that the thought in itself is ridiculous and narssisstic, which will then in turn shush me up.
'You're bleeding.'
'Where?' I touched my face.
'No, no, there, on your neck.' Sure enough, my fingers had a sticky stain of crimson from an unfelt wound. 'Did you need a tissue?'
I was fine. I was always fine.
(These pictures are from P&P)
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