Let's get real for a moment. Picture this: the kids are screaming, they're upset because they asked for cake and ice cream for lunch, and I said no. The dog is barking at the back door. He wants to come in, but yesterday he chewed a huge hole in the carpet. Trust me, he's better off outside. The phone is ringing, and it is one of my childless friends calling to invite me to one of those new in-home lingerie parties - whatever - I am fairly certain that they do not sell ten year old battered t-shirts and faded flannel pajama bottoms. Then the doorbell rings and some young professional-looking guy is standing there wanting to know for whom I will be voting - vote? I tell him that I probably won't even be around in November because I'm seriously considering running away to some small, obscure, isolated country where no one will ever find me. I think I probably scared him because he rushes down the front porch steps rather quickly.
Then, out of the blue, I hear it. There's some touchy-feely, philosophical guy on television telling me that I need to figure out the meaning of my life, discover my purpose, and find an answer to the age-old question - why am I here? Of course, this is not something that I haven't heard before, but today it seems even more hilarious than usual.
I say, to no one in particular, "This guy has gotta be kidding! I don't even know how I am going to survive the rest of the day without losing my mind. And to top it all off, I have no idea how I'm going to pay for the carpet repair. What could possibly make him think that I have any interest in find the meaning of life? I don't know why I'm here. And to be perfectly honest, I don't care!"
After three or four minutes of listening to this nutcase on television, I return to the kitchen to find my kids, along the dog, eating cake and ice cream. Guess what goes through my mind. "Oh good, they made their own lunch! That's the meaning of MY life!"
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