Tonight: My need to not appear as squiddy goober prevents me from waiting in line with all of the squiddy goobers to ask Bazan about the lyric:

They were all nice gents, the ones waiting, I'm sure of it. And Bazan wouldn't have minded, I know this because I wouldn't have minded if someone asked me about my lyrical intent.

So my mind darts to cowardice as the preventative force. Maybe it is. Maybe I'm still a nervous kid, considering making eye contact with my inspiration, and for some reason that terrifies me.

But maybe--but I don't mean maybe-- I know that after I get in my car and start the drive home from Cambridge, it won't bother me that I didn't ask. Not even when I listen to the album, the song, I'll still just enjoy the lyric, and I won't think about the could-have behind it. Because that's not my style.

Overthinking is one thing to which I'm prone, but I won't regret.