Here’s a confession that will not come as a surprise to anyone who knows me: I really, really like to talk.
“I like to talk too!” I bet you’re saying.
Oh, that’s cute. I bet you like to talk. You’re probably really great at talking. No offence, though, but you’re not as good as me.
Throughout the day, I chat without pause to my colleagues. (Sorry, guys). I send streams and streams of stream of consciousness texts to my boyfriend, undeterred by the fact that he hardly ever replies.
(It’s actually great, because when I get home at night, I can tell him all the same stories again in more detail. I’m pretty sure he loves it.)
At bedtime, I mumble-talk until I fall asleep. I'm the person who will keep chatting to my friends between bathroom stalls at brunch.
A teacher once wrote on my Year Nine report card that I "might learn something about Science" if I "would just stop chatting."
It's probably for this very reason that I've never lived alone. It's not something that even occurred to me as a possibility. Why would you live by yourself when you could live with other people who can't escape when you talk to them while you're peeing?
But this week, for the first time ever, I am living alone while my boyfriend is at a conference.
It's only seven days. Just six nights. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand and eighty minutes.