I’m outside. A person pops into view out of nowhere. It’s me, looking about ten years older, frazzled, and filthy. This older me says urgently, “Don’t take the bus to Cincinnati.” I start to ask why not, but the older me disappears.
Ten minutes later, another older me appears. Maybe twenty years older this time. Also frazzled and filthy. “Be sure to take the bus to Cincinatti,” she says as if our lives depended on it.
“You told me not to,” I say.
“Wait, what?” The even older me says. “That doesn’t make sense.” She disappears.
The bus to Cincinnati pulls up. The door opens.
Should I get on the bus or walk away?
Take the train.
…which is a decision to “not take the bus!”
You have no choice: you will take the bus. Otherwise neither of yourself could have appeared. (Need to invent some new verb tenses here–check the Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.)
Hmmm, you could be right. But not taking it wipes out both events and resets, if that’s possible (might not be).
Why on earth would you go to Cincinnati in the first place?