I squeezed a blob of mayonnaise onto my chips the other day and ended up sinking into a full-blown existential crisis. What the fuck is the point of being alive I wondered? At the most
basic level, it's to pass on my genetics by having children, right? But if that bottle of mayonnaise had cost me a couple of quid, then each small blob is worth a fraction of that overall price. Obviously. But to pay for that bottle I'd had to go to work where I'd exchanged a percentage of my very limited time on this planet for the life-coupons that we call money. The mayonnaise may have only cost two pounds but that cash was a representation of the life that I'd given up to acquire it. Each blob that went onto my chips suddenly felt like a manifestation of all that I am, have been, and ever will be. Is that too dramatic a claim? Because that mayonnaise was a condiment that I'd apparently decided was more important to my very existence than literally anything else that I could have done with the time that it had cost me. So maybe the point of life is for me to shoot a couple of kids out of my dick. But whether you're having a child or buying a bottle of mayonnaise it seems that you're only going to end up squirting your fucking life away regardless.
