Reality is schizophrenic.

One of the symptoms of schizophrenia is that the brain draws connections that shouldn't be drawn, as in "Two green cars just passed my house, so the world is ending."

But what does it mean when reality itself draws such connections?

I had what must be an unprecedented experience at Dairy Queen yesterday; a spontaneous convergence of three unrelated things about which I have blogged in the past.

I had to rescue the ice-cream-eating, Weight-Watchers-discussing bluehairs from the man who talks to a person who is not there who wouldn't let them eat in peace because he kept ranting at them about the guy from Mammoth Spring who scaled the White House fence in search of Chelsea Clinton and later used his spooky mind powers to get out of it with only a small fine.

I remembered from a couple of past experiences that one of the things the man talks to his imaginary friend about is some chick named Erica, so I looked out the window, pointed up the road and loudly asked my mom, "Hey, isn't that Erica?"

It didn't take the guy long to gather up his stuff and head out the door.

The episode leads me to one inescapable conclusion: Either I am, or reality is, schizophrenic. I refuse to accept the former.