Oh, yeah, I know. Every writer wants to find the meaning of life. But I really want to to find the meaning of life. Really. I want to know what is the point of all this foolishness. We get up in the morning, go to work, blah, blah, blah, go home, make dinner, veg a little, then to bed. Before you know it, we’re up again with the chance to do it all over! And over, and over, and over…
And the worst of it is, we’re tired all the time.
Is this pointless, or what?
Yes, there are weekends. We count down all week to them. Then they flip by in a minute, and we’re back at the grind waiting for another one. I just don’t get it.