The last lingering -- lingering, lingering -- effects of the blasted sickness have left me wanting to use my throat only for ingesting hot tea and not for, say, making noise. So I haven't talked much today.
It's actually an effort.
I AM TRULY AND SURPRISINGLY A QUIET PERSON. But I talk under my breath (quietly) a lot. I make random comments (quietly) a lot. Snatches of words can come out almost at random. An occasional word or phrase repeated three times for some reason (nervous habit, maybe). What I mean is, a lot of words trickle out of my mouth in my low-ish, deep-ish voice. Except today. As I e-mailed to my work desk neighbor David Stroup, "You can pretend you're working next to Roger Ebert," who's NOT making noise without help.
I've long talked to myself. Yes, I know much more than half the time what I'm going to say next -- *grins* -- and I guess it's a comforting habit. Mom has talked about how as a kid I'd need to wind down when going to sleep by lying in bed and talking to myself, whereas my older brother T.J. could fall asleep much quicker and easier. It's partly why we've rarely slept in the same room, even when T.J. had a bunk bed; my talking might have complicated his falling-asleep, and I understand that being annoying. Sleep is important. I don't do that as much anymore, but I do it a bit. I can control it.
Still. Surprisingly little talking today. I'm relieved I managed it.
To close! Dialogue I still remember from the Mad Magazine parody of The Last American Hero: Robert Culp's character saying "It only hurts when I talk!"