I stared into the mirror. The old, decrepit skeleton stared back at me with the faintest trace of hope in his eyes. His weathered face told a thousand tales of heartache, misery and poverty. Each wrinkle was a life lesson. Every scar was a memory on the tip of every tongue of every ignorant soul who had ever laid eyes on them. I was pathetic.

People who thought they were smarter than me always warned me that it wasn’t completely normal to talk about myself in what’s known as the third person. I had always wondered what that meant, who is to say what is and isn’t normal? Only God can pass judgement on me. No white coats or amount of facial hair can tell me otherwise.

It’s been proven that the more you talk to yourself the less likely you are to go insane. If this is the case, then surely talking to real people will increase your chances exponentially? This is something I wouldn’t know but I place my faith in facts I’ve experienced first hand. I don’t question my mental health because I talk to myself a lot.