You have to think about the possibility of predestination.  That whole notion of ordained events, of characters congealed, as inevitable as iodine in the ocean.  I could very easily just decide to believe in it.  Give myself over profoundly to the planned, programmed rolling out of my days.  To leap into the settled, settling notion that all was fixed and to be relied on to be fixed, even though we get it in the face because we don’t have the right to the roadmap.

It would mean that all the stupid things I’ve done were done just because I was supposed to do them.  Perpetrated out of divine project.  And therefore to be embraced.  Foot placed proudly in mouth, I could assume the position as an ace of alienation, a first-class fabricator of failed relationships, a phenomenal seeming improviser of irremediable faux pas.

It would mean that I was born a putz, that I would have to remain a putz.

It would mean that I would not be responsible for any of it.

It would mean that I would no longer have to try.  I could just give up.  The inevitable, explainable, evidential display of providential design I would need to accept, adhere to.  Like breakfast cereal to teeth.

Can you see how tempting that is?