The main theme of the last week has been Losing My Inner Monologue. That’s what my sister calls it, as apparently once I accused her of same, bored off my tits by her constant, mindless babbling. The inner monologue becomes an outer one.

It seems that the Inner Monologue was lost somewhere around 7am on Saturday morning, after a night of no sleep and much drunkness. Somewhere after the sunrise and before the terrified kissing of the surprised faces, the mad dash from the café, the sigh of relief heaved as ass-cheek hit bus seat – I lost my Inner Monologue.

It was replaced, though. It was replaced by an Outer Monolgue. The contents are the same, but they are published before they are ready. The gate was lifted; the scold’s bridle that keeps inner thoughts from escaping was loosed from the tongue of my mind, and all hell has broken loose.

The Outer Monologue drifts from between tongue and teeth into the ether, where it hangs around my head like a cloud of black midges. I cannot swat them away and cannot suck them back. They swarm round the ears of those in proximity to me. They are trouble.

My sister says it’s the drugs. She says the drugs break your capacity for Inner Monologue, and you can never get it back. She says that’s what happened to her. I don’t think it is, though. I think it’s this. I think it’s the writing. The lack of writing.

I don’t have time for writing. I am Spreadsheet Diva. O, you should see me – colouring the tabs in different colours, linking the separate Business User worksheets to the main page – and it gives me immense pleasure, just as algebra did back at school.

It’s containable, controllable, logical: none of which apply to the normal processes and fruits of my mind. It’s a new playroom to explore, with limited entry capacity, and strict notices to eject Ms AMP at a moment’s notice. I need to be taken by the hand and guided around like a little child: but I love it there. I’m taking a trip to logic town. Observe the strange new ways of this town’s people!

But there’s no time for this. This embarrassing sprawl of consiousness and brainjuice and gossip and mundanity: it’s caged, it’s chained, yet it must escape somehow. Hence, Outer Monologue.

S o r r y.

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