The Voice in My Head.

I've always had an odd, somewhat demanding relationship with the voice in my head. And the one in other people’s heads for that matter.

I remember going on a road trip when I was little. My older brother was driving me caaa-razy (for once - usually it was the other way around). He would not stop humming the Star Wars theme song.

And his humming was by no means quiet.

“Sing it in your head!!” I yelled. Then proceeded to pout and pester and push...and pout...until he stopped (not much has changed, one might notice...oh how I kept up - er, keep up - such a façade of innocence).
Who knows what happened (I do have a horrific memory, after all), but I seem to recall being laughed at. My parents thought it was funny that I would say such a thing.

Sing a song in your head. HA.

What’s wrong with that request, I ask? Does no one else have this kind of relationship with the goddamn voice in their noggin? Oh, perhaps instead you prefer - à la Trissi - to talk out loud to yourself.
No, no. Everyone’s got that tiny little angel. And that big fat devil (happy 20th Homer!) - they’re called thoughts.

Man oh man, I even made the horrifyingly obtuse assumption that everyone’s inner-voice (as in all people all over the world) - speaks English. You know, just like me.

Such a patronizingly American supposition.

(In my defense, I was young and naïve when I thought this and really had no concept of the human mind and that it’s possible for people to think in their own tongue. Silly, silly moi.)

Nevertheless, I am f-e-d u-p with the loud, whiny, abusive, relentless, enabling voice inside my head.
Totes O.I.

(That means over it for those of you not down with my colloquialisms.)

From my youth onward, I’ve been hyper-aware of that noisy little monster that sounds, unsurprisingly, just like me. (And I do mean monster.)

We have an extremely tumultuous and tempestuous relationship.

I’ve judged the voice. Tried (unsuccessfully) to squelch it. Disagreed with it. Paid attention to it (perhaps not as often as I should). Told it to shut-the-eff-up cooooountless times.
But there is one regard I have towards the voice that blows all other feelings out of the water. I find that, more than anything, I am angry with my stupid, vapid inner-voice.

It manages at last to work out the perfect sentence, form the perfect speech - then goes and forgets everything before I can say it aloud or write it down.

It tells me my outfit is nice when in reality...ah hem. (Exhibit A - yikes).

It tells me not to eat that fifth cookie, then completely rationalizes my eating it by saying I’ll be good starting tomorrow.

It keeps me awake at night. Good LORD does it keep me awake at night. Insomniarama indeed. No matter how tired my body may be, that little voice inside my head just keeps talking and talking and talking. Nada but nonsense.

Unfortunately, though, it seems like I’m stuck with that damn voice for as long as we both shall live.

Wamp wamp.

Blue Pen Blues

I love making lists. Grocery shopping lists, invite lists, to-do lists.

In fact, I think it’s one of the most fulfilling tasks (of those most mundane tasks that we must fulfill): to write a to-do list and, one by one, cross things off.

Sometimes all the time I add things to my to-do list that I’ve already done, or am in the process of doing, simply so I can cross them off. So I can obtain those little bubbles of achievement before they burst away.
But there is – of course – a catch to my afternoon-list-making delight. A snag in my willingness to write something down and put that perfectly symmetrical X through it. An impediment that leaves me unready, unwilling, and unable to enjoy making a To-Do.

You see...if there is nada but a blue pen present, I simply don’t delight in writing things down and crossing them off. Blue pens leave me listless – in all senses of the word. (How I love the English language! Hooray for homographs!)

Blue ink is positively inferior to black ink. It’s purposeless. Red pens, fine. Teachers wouldn’t know what to do with themselves sans their correctors.

But blue pens? Pointless!
Now don’t misunderstand me. I don’t dislike the color blue. Aqua oceans and cerulean skies are two of my most favorite things. I love the color navy (those sailors aren’t all that bad either). Blue eyes are purdy – though common to a fault.

My point is, I ain’t haterating on the hue de blue – just blue BICs. And Pilots. And Paper Mates. And Zebras. And Pentels.

Poor paper! It’s poisoned by that pernicious, boring, humdrum fad of a color, that stupid, senseless indigo ink.
Poor handwriting! My old fashioned a’s just don’t look as significant and stately in blue as they do in black. Ugh, and it makes barely legible scribbles positively hieroglyphic.


Poor eyes! I feel sorriest for them of all. Those sad, sad little orbs. They actually have to pay attention to that ink long enough to decipher words from its dizzying, unsavory grip.

I daresay the institution of the blue pen is unprofessional. It belongs in middle school along with the other pink, purple, teal, and orange ballpoint misfits.
Believe you me, I loved colored ink! But that phase of my life ended with the last bell of my last class. As it should have ended for everyone with a job. We’re in the real world now, people. This isn’t a place for pretty ink pens – that includes you, blue.



If I can’t find one of my black Pentel R.S.V.P's (medium point, naturally), on my mess of a desk, and there’s only a blue BIC in my line of vision, I seriously think twice about writing something down.

Then I wonder how the hell a blue pen got into my cube.

Then, later, I scold myself for forgetting what I had to do.

All because someone invented blue goddamn pens!
 
Let me just leave you with this thought: There is a reason for the Black Pen Only rule on very important forms and documents.