A night with myself.

I don't know about other people who live alone, but I talk to myself constantly.
{I'm not even ashamed to type that on the Interweb.}
It's a fact of who I am, and I've never been good at hiding the real me.

I am veritably exhausted tonight, thanks to a hellish deadline day yesterday, thus rending me with that feeling of being drunk, though the only thing I've imbibed this evening is the homemade iced tea I shuttle home from Mom's every week.
{It truly is that addicting.}

I had to shut off the TV because I found myself doing what I sometimes do to my parents/friends/coworkers when I'm "being cute:" picking one word they say, and repeating it.

For example:
- When the douche baggy host on the Current network referred to Rick Sanchez in a snarky way, I said "Sanchez" aloud to, well, no one.

It's a fun game, I highly suggest you try it with someone you love now, if not sooner.

This is one of those nights where I am really enjoying the hell out of my company.

Is that abnormal?
Or admirable?

Instead of sitting at my desk, I'm ensconced on some pillows in my living room typing on the floor. I may or may not be trying to convince myself that if the laptop's not on the desk, it doesn't really count as time in front of the computer I could have been doing something more constructive.

Like reading.
Or singing along with Sirius' Classic Vinyl (which I'm doing anyway because I'm a "multi-tasker.")
Or talking to myself ...