This month . . . .

     You don’t have to tell me, I already know: I talk too much. Or rather, when I talk I say too much, and often with the wrong words. Not intentionally, of course, but in the course of speaking: I self-edit on the fly, make leaps in logic, ignore pertinent details, and jump ahead in the conversation — any conversation — in the hopes of . . . what? I can’t say. Getting to the end expediently? Being both participants of a dialogue? Breaking the code in the Gordian knot of human communication? I don’t know. Frankly, I’m asking questions that don’t yet belong in the essay but are more appropriate further down, perhaps paragraph four or so. And this is what I do when I talk to other adults. I make them cringe, or chuckle, in equal measure, when I open my mouth. That’s a nice way of saying — and isn’t that generous of me — that I’m not particularly fun to talk with. I don’t know how I got like this — with a little bit of time and effort I could probably Venn diagram my theories on this, but I won’t — and recently I’ve noticed that it’s doing me no good to talk with other people. And it’s not doing them much good, either.