I follow rigorously in the shadow of mighty intellectual giants and trail breakers for the scientific method such as Galileo, Newton, Maxwell and Rutherford. If the observations fit the theory then the theory is good, and theories stand until they are disproved. There is no need to invoke any higher powers to understand inexplicable events, they will eventually crumble beneath the steamroller of logic and truth.
Why then, do I own a lucky pair of pants - whenever I wear them I'm guaranteed some bedroom frolics (although there's no empirical evidence to back this up). And how is it that I shave with shaving gel that brings me bad luck - since its purchase in a Sydney chemist, nothing but emotional trauma has befallen me? Why do I always check my horoscope in whichever paper I'm reading (fortunately New Scientist's remit does not extend to astrology), even though I'll always do it with a weary and resigned sense of how damnably stupid I'm being.
It's because I'd like responsibility for my life to be removed from my hands. I'd prefer it if the cool mentholated feel of my gel (which incidentally is truly excellent in all aspects of the shaving process save for emotional stability) was responsible for her rejection of me, because it saves me having to look for flaws in myself.
It would be easier for me to understand if my scoring prowess was directly related to my under garments rather than leave it in the hands of other apparently random and uncontrollable factors like an appreciation of my smile or a general hormonal imbalance.
My rational mind fights hard to prevent my stupid foibles ruling me, lest I end up a gullible hippy. I read the horoscope but forget what it says, I wear my pants in strict rotation (Day1: Normal, Day2: Back-to-front, Day3: Inside-out, Day4: Inside-out and back-to-front) and never shuffle them around so that I wear my lucky pants on days when I need them, I keep shaving with my unlucky gel.
I'd better stop typing now though, it's bad luck for me to type at 11am.