Existentialism for Millennials

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?

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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?

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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?

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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!!

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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If the future influences the present as much as the past, then this boob job should pay for itself pretty quickly…?

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If the devil is nothing but a fallen angel, then what do Victoria’s Secret models do after retirement?

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If consumerism thrives on emotional voids, then I must be empty inside because I look fucking fabulous.