Then there’s my incessant talking! I loathe this about myself. I wish, I really wish, I would just SHUT UP! But no, in company, I have to talk and talk and talk. I make myself flustered and panicky, headachy and hoarse. I start to lose my voice, the interest and respect of my companions, my friendships, but still I plough on and on.
On the Mongolian Steppe, where I lived for a while, women usually occupied the ger (yurt), the round nucleus of the household. Any visiting women would be absorbed into that community, given a baby to hold, and a part in a good old gossip. Men would squat outside smoking and gazing into the distance in manly silence. They looked askance at my nervous, womanish attempts at conversation.
At work I can now squander whole hours nattering with my colleagues, constantly turning away from the same unfinished email, to add “another thing” to the general discussion, proving, once again, what a waste of a salary, of tax-payers money, I am. If I had any integrity, I’d resign. At least when I was starving myself, I sat in morose silence staring at my computer screen, even if I didn’t get any more work done. It was such a heroic effort just to stay upright and conscious, to stagger in to work, that it felt like an achievement in its own right, and compensated for my complete inefficacy.
 Luckily, it’s a very low salary. Don’t “hate on me”.