When I think that I’m telling a Great Story, one of two things usually happen: Half of the time, I realize halfway through that I’ve already told it and the people listening to me are only being polite. During the other half, the people listening just stop me outright. Or they roll their eyes so hard they actually do stay that way.
I think this is because 99% of the time, I’ve already told the story to myself. Whoa, crazy lady alert. Code red, folks.
Okay, let me explain:
Everyone’s got a neural mechanism responsible for their internal narration, right? I think, at the most basical of levels, it’s just a human thing. I believe it’s located in the hypoparietathalareticulumus, yes? Yes.
I zeroed in on mine at a pretty early age. Who knows why, perhaps as an escape from my normal, trauma-free childhood. Anyway, I have always meticulously chronicled the things that happen around me – for what purpose, I’m unsure. Sometimes it’s so I can tell the story to others. The rest of the time, it’s just a nutty little compulsion, I suppose.
But as far as habits go, I’d file this one under Weird, But Occasionally Useful. I do it so often I think this is why I remember my dreams so frequently: my brain just automatically goes into Recap Mode, even when I’m only sorta-awake, so that by the time I wake up, I have a nice prepackaged anecdote waiting for me.*
The downside to this: I’ve sometimes “told” a story, like, fourteen times before I actually say it aloud/write it down. The down-downside to this: I’ve sometimes told a story aloud fourteen times already. The really down-downside to this: people suspecting that you have brain damage because you’ve seriously told us one hundred times that you had a dream that you were riding on the outside of the airplane, oh my God stop telling that stupid story.
Anyway, I throw this out there for two reasons.
First: as an apology and forewarning to you, Gentle Reader(s). I’m trying to write more often, which inevitably means I’ll tell the damn airplane dream story at least seven more times. And don’t get me started on the countless references to Unfortunate Haircuts of My Past. I regret those already, even more so than the Perm of ’89 or the Bowl Cut of ’98. Oh god. Flashbacks.
Second: I’m curious as to how strange this mental peccadillo truly is. I imagine that it’s not that weird: everyone does it… right? (Pleasesayyes).
That’s all I got. I tried to find some kind of really nice way to tie this all together but I can’t. So here’s a gratuitous link to something I find very funny, but has absolutely nothing to do with everything I just wrote (you’re welcome):
*I always imagine that these little “I had a dream last night that…” stories are fantastic icebreakers, even though I’m pretty sure most of my casual acquaintances think that I have some sort of out-of-control hallucinogen habit or just completely make this shit up, neither of which are true. Also, define “habit.”
Have you seen “Sh*t Nobody Black Says”? Also awesome.