Setting:
Two friends, Jess (superstitious) and Riley (rational), are sitting on a park bench in Chicago on a breezy spring afternoon, sipping coffee.
Jess: (hearing a sneeze from a passerby)
Bless you!
Riley:
You say that faster than Siri reacts to “Hey.” Do you ever not say “bless you”?
Jess:
Never. You never know when a sneeze might open a portal for evil spirits.
Riley: (chokes on coffee, laughing)
You can’t be serious.
Jess:
Dead serious. My grandma told me when you sneeze, your soul leaves your body for a split second, and saying “bless you” keeps anything bad from swooping in. It’s spiritual cybersecurity.
Riley: (grinning)
Jess, I love you, but if sneezing was a soul-ejecting event, allergy season would be a horror movie. I’d have demons lined up like it’s Black Friday.
Jess:
Exactly! That’s why you need someone to bless you. I’m just keeping you safe, one sneeze at a time.
Riley:
Okay, but… think about it. Medically speaking, a sneeze is just your nose forcefully ejecting irritants—dust, pollen, pepper, whatever. There’s no metaphysical stuff involved. Your soul stays put.
Jess:
Science doesn’t explain everything. Just because we know how sneezing works biologically doesn’t mean the superstition’s invalid. Lots of cultures have rituals around sneezing. Even in ancient Rome, they said “Jupiter bless you.”
Riley:
True, but that was during the time when people thought disease came from imbalanced bodily fluids. Bloodletting was a thing, Jess. Just because it’s old doesn’t make it right.
Jess:
Fine, but don’t you think it’s better to be safe than sorry? What if—what if—you didn’t say “bless you” one day and then your week went horribly wrong? Wouldn’t you at least wonder?
Riley:
No more than I wonder if my week goes badly because I wore mismatched socks. Correlation isn’t causation. Remember last month when I had the flu and sneezed my lungs out, and you blessed me after every single one?
Jess:
Yeah?
Riley:
And then I backed into a pole in the Starbucks drive-thru the next morning.
Jess:
But maybe that was the mild version of what could’ve happened. Like… without my blessings, the pole might’ve fallen on you.
Riley: (laughs)
That’s not how probability—or physics—works. Look, I’m not saying you can’t say “bless you.” It’s polite, sure. It’s tradition. But attributing it to spirit defense is like locking your door because ghosts might break in.
Jess:
Hey, I also sage my apartment monthly. No chances taken.
Riley:
And I run a HEPA filter and call it a day.
Jess:
Well, we each have our shields, I guess.
Riley:
True. I respect that yours just happens to smell like lavender and fear.
Jess:
And yours smells like smug science and hand sanitizer.
Riley: (laughs)
Fair enough. Maybe we’re just wired differently. You’re Team “Bless You,” I’m Team “Gesundheit because it literally just means ‘health.’”
Jess:
Deal. But if you ever wake up with a possessed toaster, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Riley:
If my toaster starts speaking Latin, I’ll personally write you a handwritten apology—and say “bless you” every time someone in a 3-mile radius sneezes.
Jess:
Deal. But I’ll be there with holy water, just in case.
Science Vs Superstition 
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