Sometimes it takes a PhD designation to decipher my rambling utterances.
PhD, as in someone with a Personal (understanding of) hyperactive (and) Dysfunctional thought processes.
Simply put, someone who can listen to a stuttering monologue of:
"... and so, I'm thinking ... that what it is ... is that maybe ... I need to ... you, know, like when I was ... and I ... it's like ... ahhh ... I know! .... It's like coming off a ... and then ... no, no, no, these are happy tears ... coming off a ... and then ... and I just need to, but I can't ... I don't know why ... well, I guess I can ... you're right, you're right, I know you're right ... but what about ... and if ... okay. ... But — okay."And then, when I take a deep, shaky, breath, and I look her in the eye, and say:
"Does that make any sense?"She replies:
"Yes."And she means it.
Because it does.
Make sense. To her.
Because she knows me.
Because she's a girl.
Because she's a girl who knows me.
And if you think that those periods of ellipses up there are replacing long, detailed, recollections of events or thoughts previously discussed?
No. No. Not really.
I have edited precious few words out of the actual conversation.
She's just that good.