Stupid/Decisions

I make stupid decisions frequently: This morning I ate yogurt in the shower; a few days ago I shaved my beard down to a mustache; and last month I tried to shave my beard with yogurt. The stupidest decision I've made in recent history--like most of my decisions, stupid or not--was catalyzed by my attraction to a girl. Admittedly, what qualifies the decision as stupid or not is how things pan out with the object of attraction. In the case where things don't pan out, i.e., go the way I want them to, the decision gets filed under the classification of stupid and, to the extent that things fail to pan out according to my design, gets further sub-classified as really stupid, one of the stupider, or, in this case, the stupidest in recent history. 

The decision I made--to work as an editor for a magazine and, perhaps more tellingly, share an office with this beguiling espresso machine sales-manager--is the reason I now live in Bangkok as opposed to, say, Tokyo. The reason that decision was stupid--exceptionally stupid--has nothing to do with the fact that I live in Bangkok; Bangkok can be a fine place. It is the supidest decision I've made in recent history because I was so moved eight months ago by this one person (insipid and very conventional, as it turns out) that came flitting through a coffee shop, conducting the course of my life towards such a place that the geographical conditions would be  prime for our shared, future happiness. The awareness that this, the beguiling espresso machine sales-manager and my stupid plans for my--no, our--future, juxtaposed with the reality of the situation--no second date, a mutually coerced and experienced loathing when in the other's presence--is the reason (or at least constitutes a more-than-marginal part of the cluster o' contingencies that animates the visage commonly referred to to as a decision) I came to Bangkok makes me feel like it, no, the decision and its executor, were stupid. Very stupid.