The meaning of modern life
These past few days I’ve been thinking about what I think all working people think about at some point or another.
What’s the point of the endless cycle of work and weekends?
We all get up each morning, commute to a job we tolerate/hate, grab a drink at night and then blow off steam on the weekend. Wash, rinse, repeat.
I’ve been informed by multiple sources (since I’m not smart enough to come up with this stuff on my own) that there is no point. You do the aforementioned for shelter and food. For the lucky ones, your job can provide you with a half-point, but I think this still holds up.
It’s up to you to infuse your life with meaning. No one can do that for you. Not your parents, your job, your favorite band, your Playstation 3 or that new pair of seersucker Chucks you bought the other week.
It’s past time I hurried up and found some meaning in it all.
(I’ve got it! Drugs and empty sex! Instant, everlasting significance.)
