conversations with myself

Psssst.
Hello?
Hey EJ. It's me, your inner voice. She Who Knows Better, She Who Speaks Uncomfortable Truths.
Oh, you again. Do you mind? It's one in the morning and I'm trying to study.
Yeah, I know. I just thought I'd pop in and give you a hard time about not being able to retain this stuff.
Thanks, that's very helpful.
No, really, you're bad at it. You say you love history but you can't remember the name of the Smithsonian curator the damn chapter is about, even though you've probably read it ten times in the last few pages.
That's not really the point. I'm a grad student. It's not about memorizing facts. If I understand the argument that is being made and can critique it in a sophisticated manner, or at least one that uses a lot of five-dollar words, I'm golden.
Riiiight. So you're not at all bothered by the fact that you can't remember his name, or the names or anyone else involved in the controversy, or the lobbying associations involved, but you're totally fine with the rest of the junk that's clogging up your head.
What are you talking about?
Don't you find it really troubling that you can't retain the details of what is supposed to be your academic passion, but you remember totally useless crap without even trying? Aren't you totally embarrassed that you know that Lindsay Lohan has left rehab and is wearing an alcohol-monitoring anklet? And how you know the names of Britney Spears' dogs? And--
I do not know the names of Britney Spears' dogs.
Yes you do. Don't lie.
Shut up. Look, I read that crap in little minute-long spurts throughout the day. It's not my fault it sticks in my head. I don't want it to stick in my head. If I could physically reach in and remove it from my brain with a teeny-tiny ice cream scoop, I'd do it. I want to have the brain space for stuff that actually matters.
Maybe if Perez Hilton wrote about the October Revolution and drew coke residue on a photo of Lenin you'd actually have been able to contribute in class on Tuesday.
MAYBE. Look, I guess I just process information differently. I blame the Internet. And society. And being raised by a generation that was too busy congratulating themselves on being good people to effectively parent their children. And saturated fats.
Maybe you should stop reading Salon.com all damn day.
Maybe you should bite me.
I can't. I'm your inner monologue.
Fine, then maybe you could shut up so I could get some sleep. Trying to read historiography in bed is clearly not working.
Suit yourself.
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Bit-Bit, Lacy and London.
I hate you.