EXISTENTIALISTIC CRAP

Let's call him Paul, the strange and slightly over-friendly gentleman who believes he has found his new BFF in yours truly, and now frequents our local Starbucks a little more frequently than I'd like, which is making me cheat on my baristas with others about 2 miles away at least 2-3 times a week now.

Anyway, Paul, starts up a very one-sided conversation with me one day about this book he's reading about the universe.  And he's just so thoroughly awed and inspired and overcome by the idea of infinite space and time, and the concepts of micro and macro existences, that he reminds me so much of how I used to be in college.  And how annoying it must have been for my parents whenever I came home and assaulted them with my newfound insights and my almighty super-geniusness.

Or else he was just high.  Also a distinct very possibility. 

But when he finally finished.  And I don't really know how he got there.  But thank god, he did finally finish, I kindly excused myself and trotted off a little dizzier than before to pick up the kids.

Happy to be back to 6-year-old conversations about tooters and burps and how birds' poop is white so, therefore, it must be clean, I was totally sideswiped by Chago when he decides to start up a conversation about...yep, you guessed it, our place in the universe and how we must seem like aliens or giants to ants and beetles, so there must be creatures out there who can hold our world in the palm of their hands or even in their own bug catchers and watch us under microscopes, too.

WTF?!?  

Channeling creepy 45-year-old men who still live with their mother and never amounted to anything because they can only exist in the abstract world and don't know when to pause in a sentence in order to allow a decent dialog with people NOT inside their own head?

Damn boy creeped me out.