Louis CK can be an oddball man, but then again, I guess I can be pretty fucked up sometimes, too.

Did you ever see the Louis CK bit where he explains that because of his recent successes, he can finally afford to fly First Class and hang up front with the elite? His story unfolds. After sitting in coach for so long, he knows his luck may eventually run out, so he really wants to savor this semi-stardom. He considers giving up his fancy seat to a soldier in uniform as a noble, kind-hearted gesture of respect. The comic later decides against giving up his seat, but then congratulates himself for having even thought of the idea in the first place. Today, I had one of those moments. Sort of.

As I was pulling into my office driveway, I noticed a few white pieces of paper abandoned on the pavement. As my tire tromped over them, painting dirt and tire marks all over, I noticed they were actually pieces of mail that were accidentally dropped outside of the mailbox, floating away and flying free. Since this is the mailbox I usually frequent, I would want someone to pick up my lost mail and place it in the box, right? There are credit scores and bills and stamps on the line here, people! Not to sound all Cliff-Clavin-from-Cheers, but you can’t mess with the mail! (Maybe I should’ve gone with Newman from Seinfeld for a stronger reference, but I feel he really didn’t love the mail system like Cliff did.)

I parked my car and walked down the driveway, fighting the burning sun and powering through the heat and dangerous ultraviolet rays. With a very meager amount of moisture just starting to form at my brow, I picked up the three pieces of mail and looked at the name on the return address. Kathy is going to be very pleased that I placed her mail into the mailbox, safely, quickly, and efficiently, I thought. It felt good to right someone else’s wrong. Maybe Kathy had 50 pieces of mail, and three slipped from her grasp. Maybe the mailman or woman dropped them. Either way, no one was to blame because I was there to swoop in and save the day, without anyone batting an eye!

As I held Kath’s mail in my hands, my mind started reeling. Was I about to change this poor woman’s fate somehow? Or what if I was being pulled into some creepy, Sci-Fi-like, Eagle-Eye-meets-The-Adjustment-Bureau circus? What if I was being tracked by a secret government faction and hunted down by their super-secret mega-computer code-named something really cool, but also scary? Did I just Shia LaBeouf myself? What if my identity was being stolen by this computer, like in The Net, and what if I had to go out on the lamb because I touched business that wasn’t mine to meddle with in the first place? Car chases and gunfire and bad men in trench coats would ensue, chasing me down for having placed my well-intentioned fingertips upon the documents.

Or maybe a part-zombified maniacal post office employee was my attacker and I interrupted a curse that was formerly only a legend to some, revolving around a chain letter gone horribly wrong. It’d be like Maniac Cop but, Maniac Mailman or something, and you’ve just got to love that alliteration. There would be just as much chasing and terror except this time, the Maniac Mailman would have a long kitchen blade and would want me to pay for my nosey behavior. Or maybe he doesn’t use a blade at all. Maybe he just gets his hands on me and chokes me out, or pulls my head off a la Jason Voorhees. What if my good deed was the equivalent of being flagged down in a slasher film to help a Final Girl with a flat tire, but instead of helping her out, I just become another one of that cannibal’s victims allowing her more time to escape!

I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. I wasn’t so sure about all that nonsense, but one thing I was confident about was that like Louis, I was really proud of myself for even having thought of this good deed. Sure, I didn’t cure cancer or feed a homeless man. I didn’t help an old lady across the street or reunite a lost child with his mother. I put some fucking mail in a mailbox. Yet, not only did I feel preposterously good about myself, but surely I deserved a nice, firm pat on the back for a job well done. Because hey – it’s the thought that counts, right?

And this is how my mind works.