When the meaning of life is a void, at least the snacks are abundant.
As we wander through the absurdity of existence, our stomachs cry out for sustenance. But what is the purpose of this sustenance, if not to distract us from the crushing despair of our own mortality?
Is it not the case that our pursuit of meaning is merely a means to an end, and that end being the consumption of more meat snacks? The existentialist in me says yes.
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