I Have My Own Reasons

Many people find it strange that a man would choose to cover his head with a cardboard box (as I frequently do), rather than with a hat, but I figure that what I choose to put on my head is none of their business. As a trustworthy grownup and a longtime taxpayer (not to mention a descendant of European royalty and a free citizen of the cosmos), do I not have the right to wear a cardboard box on my head, if I should so desire? Besides, however strange it might appear to the suspicious eyes of other people, I can hereby proclaim, with a proud feeling of utter conviction, that I have my own reasons.

People may find it strange that I wear a cardboard box on my head, rather than a hat, but I do not care what they think. If I happen to enjoy the habit of wearing a cardboard box on my head, then what of it? Does the harmless act of wearing a cardboard box on my head make it necessary for me to be viewed with alarm, or to be regarded as being guilty of treason? Does a cardboard box on my head constitute a clear threat to the safety and happiness of the general public? People can think whatever they want to think of me, but as a strong-minded person who always makes his own choices, I have my own reasons.

If, as I have already acknowledged, many people tend to find it strange to observe me with a cardboard box on my head, rather than a hat, I can only presume the extreme degree to which they probably are inclined to look askance at me when I paint myself purple and play Ukrainian melodies on a banjo, which is my regular practice on the first Tuesday of every month. However, I can tell you, quite openly and in all honesty, that I am not unduly concerned by their particular manner of looking at me, whether it be askance or otherwise. I refuse to let it trouble me, because I have my own reasons for doing what I do.

A weaker man would, undoubtedly, follow the easy path, willingly submitting himself to the trifling obligations of petty conformity, but I maintain a policy of being ill-disposed toward all forms of servility. I prefer to be myself, such as I am. Once, a long time ago, when I was still in the unwary days of my foolish youth, I did briefly attempt to be someone else (a Japanese hypnotist, as I remember), but after a period of several weeks it proved to be an awkward situation that could not be sustained. Ever since that unfortunate error, I have been careful to steer a steady course of determined singularity, knowing that I have my own reasons, and believing them to be thoroughly honorable.

Let them look at me! Let them think whatever they want to think! Why should I care? If I am to be seen as an eccentric character (not that I am actually inclined to accept that unimaginative description, which I hold to be nothing more than a shameful example of common prejudice), does it require that I be summarily judged as having committed a punishable offense? If I elect to stand apart from the mindless crowd (sometimes while wearing a suit that is fashioned entirely from banana peels), does it diminish my integrity, or render me any less human? After all, I am fully entitled to have my own reasons.