I've never had too much interest in the latest fashion. You've probably noticed. Certainly the women in my life have. I read in that Bob Dylan autobiography that he reads newspapers. Just not today's. Why should I care about the New York Times' best seller list when I haven't read all of Mark Twain?
Oh, I'm no whimpering nostalgist pining for any good old days.
Oh, and another thing- I see stuff. Yeah, I came equipped with some sorta' x-ray specs for the soul. It's no power that is unique to me. Sometimes I think that I'm just tuned in to a slightly different frequency than most folks. I pay a price in that I miss things that should be obvious. Things that are obvious to other people. I suppose it would be simpler to say that I'm naive.
Tell someone that you love them and chances are pretty good that they'll tell you the same thing back. Heck, a parrot will do it if you have the patience. If they don't, in fact, love you, conflict and drama must ensue to reverse the situation. No one wants to say, "Well, I know that I told you that I loved you but that wasn't really the case. You put me into an awkward position and I lied to buy time. I thought that maybe I would love you eventually. I don't."
This phenomena along with petty theft supports the pawn shop industry.
Considering yourself naive if the alternative is dumb is good for self esteem. Now, if I can convince myself that I'm an independent playboy instead of heartbroken and lonely, I'll be on top of the world. Now, where's that copy of Pudd'nhead Wilson?