The Chicken and Monkey

Lately I’ve been catching myself talking aloud when there's no one else in the room. Catching is not the right word. Noticing. Acknowledging. When I am home alone I talk to myself. I talk to the television. I sing. I rub my stomach. I smile at the television. The dancing light beams talk to each other and I smile at them and talk about them. It’s as if I have friends in the room and I’m clarifying that whatever just happened was in fact great/horrible/funny/ridiculous, what have you. I tell the Bachelor and his harem that they are so awkward and crazy and then I instruct him on which girl to not give a rose to. I chastise the girls for being so petty in their spats. I smile and say, “This is so weird.” “Oh, you are going home.” “What are you thinking?” “Are you kidding?” All aloud. I am losing my internal monologue. The chicken and monkey that used to have conversations in my head have pushed themselves down from my cranial confines and out of my mouth. Their form of payback for making them watch such atrocities silently. They make me laugh, the chicken and the monkey. I’ll tell you what the chicken said tonight so long as there is an understanding. The chicken and monkey are my friends, do not pass judgement on them. They hang out with me and we watch all of the same television shows. One of our favorites is The Biggest Loser. It’s touching. Caroline Rhea is the host. She has a tagline just like Trump does. That chicken is so clever. Tonight, we were watching The Bachelor and a girl got turned down and the host said, “I’m sorry” and with comedic timing fit for showbiz the chicken chimed in “You are not the biggest loser.” Oh, we laughed.

This all just turned creepy.