The Audience in My Brain

Gerald Pumble was, by all accounts, a perfectly unremarkable man. His life was a beige tapestry of spreadsheets, lukewarm tea, and polite nods. His internal monologue, however, was a vibrant, often unhinged, cacophony of opinions on everything from the geopolitical implications of his sock drawer to the optimal methane-excretion angle of a sentient space-squid.

"Honestly, Gerald, that tie is an insult to chromatics," a voice would observe as he buttoned up for work.

"He's still eating those processed nutrient bricks? The caloric efficiency is abysmal," another would chime in during his lunch.

"Look at him! The sheer audacity of his bipedal locomotion without even *one* stabilizing tentacle!" a chorus would exclaim as he navigated the office stairs.

Gerald tried everything. Meditation just made the voices louder, criticizing his posture and breathing technique ("Unacceptable oxygen-to-carbon dioxide exchange!"). Therapy sessions were unproductive, mostly because the voices kept interjecting with unsolicited diagnoses of his therapist ("Such rudimentary psychoanalysis! Has he not even considered the impact of interstellar dust bunnies?"). He once tried noise-canceling headphones, then remembered the problem was *inside his head*.

He was convinced he was either going mad or experiencing some form of highly specific telepathy. He'd even started mentally arguing back. "Excuse me," he'd think, "my tie is perfectly fine, and I don't even *have* methane glands!"

One Tuesday, while contemplating the existential dread of unread emails, a new voice broke through the usual chatter. It was deep, sonorous, and carried an air of profound authority.

"Attention, viewers," it boomed, not in Gerald's head, but seemingly *through* it, "We seem to be experiencing an unscheduled feedback loop. Our subject, designated 'Gerald,' is directly intercepting viewer commentary." There was a collective gasp, a momentary silence that felt heavier than a black hole.

Then, the first voice, the one always critiquing his tie, returned, slightly panicked. "Oh, dear! He heard that about the tie? My apologies, Gerald! It was merely an aesthetic observation, purely for entertainment value!"

Gerald froze, a half-eaten biscuit suspended mid-air. He wasn't receiving broadcasts. He *was* the broadcast. His entire, unremarkable life was an interstellar reality show, and the voices? They were the audience, critiquing his every move.

"Wait," he thought, a new, horrifying realization dawning, "Does that mean... they've been watching me shower?"

A thousand alien voices responded with a single, embarrassed, "Yes."