There's a difference --a really big difference, actually--between having done something stupid, and having purposely done something stupid. I seem to have lived much of my life, made many of my decisions, according to the latter mode.
Why is this, I wonder now, and rather stupidly so, as of course time has moved far beyond any window of opportunity that might ever had existed for retraction or repair. Is there some deeply ingrained inclination, an unconscious rebellion against good reason, that has goaded me in every critical moment irrepressibly toward the sphere of things which are universally inadvisable?
Perhaps the rebellion has been against my father. He, after all, had often either called me stupid outright, or at least implied the same. Did I decide, again in that deep in the soul storehouse of knee-jerk inclinations, to go ahead and show him how stupid I could really be?
Am I therefore a success, albeit a stupid success?
Or maybe my toxic reaction against good sense is found in simple stubbornness for its own sake, a will to break the mould no matter what the mould might be, no matter how proper, prudent, fitting, needful.
If they ask for your coat, give them your cloak as well. If they compell you to go one mile, go yet another.