Confused-Shoes

My coolest girl friend (I mean friend, not girlfriend) texted me all of a sudden earlier this rainy evening about why my girl was blooming lately, or about the fact that she was, indeed. Well, I told my friend, I was pretty sure that I had nothing to do with it. I mean, my girl, for whatever reason there is in the world, could be blooming for a million reasons that she has come up with independently of me. Occam’s Razor tells us to dispense with the costly, unnecessary explanations. If I could explain that she has a million other reasons for her to be blooming, well, that’s it.

Wait a farting second. What did I say? Occam’s Razor? Well, Occam’s Razor would say that she was indeed blooming because of me! Come to think of it, it’s the simplest explanation and it ain’t too farfetched at all. Now, for modesty’s sake, I usually wouldn’t be assuming this much, but my logic tells me that it isn’t such a bad idea at all to think of oneself well sometimes. Especially on rainy evenings.

But I guess she was indeed blooming lately. Many other common friends have spoken of this matter to me lately, and well, what could I say, I feel fine knowing that, pretending, you know, that she was my girl and mine alone. But for all you know, world, she isn’t. Maybe to some degree, yes, but I don’t know, maybe not at all. As I try now to sort of sort things out I’m beginning to muddle things completely.

I’m not so sure about many things lately. I watched Pierce Brosnan’s and Julienne Moore’s Laws of Attraction and I kind of needed some light romantic comedies to restore my faith in faith; that’s not so clear, I must admit. But I understand it well because it’s about myself, now. But after it was over (the credits were with a kind of a good closing song, maybe by Johnny Cash or something) and when my Cheeseburger and two cigarettes and coke and fries were done, I started feeling funny again. Ah, whatever I see I keep relating to my situation. I’m supposed to be good at making connections, famous or infamous. But then again, who wants to make oneself miserable my making connections that should otherwise have been better to left unrelated? By making so many thought experiments in my head I have become a little more cynical than is permissible to the average normal guy. But how much degree of cynicism should each normal guy possess? And what makes a normal guy, anyway?

If she is blooming, so let her be. Marvel at her. Be glad for her. She might even get casted in some advert or anything. But as for me, I’d like to be at peace with my ongoing bundle of perceptions unhabitual-isolated-perceptive state. Making connections in my head isn’t really helpful for my lovelife, and, most importantly, to my rainy evening well being.