If time is nothing but a measurement that we constructed to better grasp ephemeral, days, months and years — then why does Taco Bell’s breakfast have to end at 11 am? And why did the cashier roll his eyes at me?
If I drift off into a chasm of weightlessness and lack of thought and feeling when I sleep, how did I wake up covered in Fritos? And why is my Uber receipt so expensive? And who am I next to?
If I am in control of my own decisions and ultimately my destiny, why did I just re-watch Parks and Recreation for the like fourth time?
If life is meaningless, a shadow of a fleeting dream, then why do I get all these letters littered with vague threats about paying back my student loans? It doesn’t matter guys!!
If our personalities are inauthentic because we are byproducts of our environment, then your Instagram feed of lobster rolls and sailing photos is a crock of shit. YOU DON’T EVEN OWN A BOAT, CINDY.
At what point does death occur — and when it does, can you please not turn my Facebook wall into a memorial littered with shallow, grammatically incorrect memories? I didn’t like you in high school, I sure as hell don’t like you now.
If to live is to suffer, and surviving is to find meaning in the suffering, does this explain why I have to spend precious time and money at work happy hours?
Where does our conscience and morality come from — a higher power or the evolution of modern society and its ceaseless demands? And when can I tell Cindy that she really needs to lose some weight? It’s hilarious, but embarrassing to be seen with her.
If love is but a chemical illusion that indoctrinates us to pass down our genes — our only glimpse at a semblance of immortality — why haven’t I gotten laid in a month? Every damn time I swipe right it’s a Tinder match.
If there are no facts, only interpretations of the truth, then I deserve a purse puppy. Yes, Mom, I can handle taking care of it. And no, I’m not seeing anyone.
If hope is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of men, do I really have to go to my ten year reunion? That open bar will be the absence of hope.
If we all are born and die alone in the universe, and you dumped me, why are you still liking my Instagrams? It’s not even sadistic at this point, just annoying.
If the future influences the present as much as the past, then this boob job should pay for itself pretty quickly…?
If the devil is nothing but a fallen angel, then what do Victoria’s Secret models do after retirement?
If consumerism thrives on emotional voids, then I must be empty inside because I look fucking fabulous.