It really is a sort of crazy thing.
One moment I'm sitting there listening to this aspiring something or other. Actually listening. Not so much remembering. But definitely listening.
Then the word comes across my register: "plausible."
Sure. It's "plausible" that Richard Nixon is the one who killed the rockstar near Seattle in 1994. Actually, it isn't that plausible. But you get it (right?).
My internal mechanics start scrambling through the hull of my boat; racing to their battle stations. The XO relays the command to load the torpedoes and flood the tubes with cortisol. I can already feel my cortex wrinkles starting to clench while I grasp for some way to let a warning shot out across the bow without starting an all out war in the middle of this hip, dimly-lit coffee house designed for people of average to below-average height.
Oh, wait a moment...
Yes. I can engage the autopilot on this one. Totally forgot about that (see the bit up there about remembering).
They'll get their head nods and their tacit agreements left just vague enough to make sure I don't have to openly reject any invites next month. And I can trim the invite list for the next Solstice too.
It's just a flick of the wrist, really. Sort of like what you see the clowns do at the rodeo when they spin that circle parallel to the ground. But if you place it just right, you can whip that loop closed like a water balloon and dance away.
Maybe it pops, maybe it doesn't. I'm fine hearing about it through the grapevine.