Let me introduce the Poet of the Twentieth Century:

Life is sad
Life is a bust
All you can do is do what you must
You do what you must do, and you do it well
I'll do it for you, honey baby,
Can't you tell?

Not even close to trying to be funny.

I used to think that I was evil because of the collection of Evil Things that I had... accomplished in my life. I inflated these things (some, not even a minute in real time) until I became evil. Beyond more than a horrible human being.

But I wasn’t. Evil. Or horrible. Terribly flawed, yes.

It’s not your conscience telling you that you’re bad nor your conscience telling you that your desire to Do Good is going to be determined by others or it certain to fail, etc.

Someone fails basic logic (6 semester hours!) in naming an inaction as an action. That’s akin to hiring 68 Shabbas goy weekly in the event that a knot may need tying. It makes no sense.

Love? Best left to fluid exchange, really. Friction and the like.

Your ego-you and your conscience are not Two Persons in One Body (any more than... you know) and shouldn’t be used as an excuse for inaction.

The question isn’t “is there a true point to existence,” (that should be answered, “yes, just as there is a True North) but, rather, “is there a point of existence?”

And this is the ‘point’ where we begin immersing ourselves in Kierkegaard. Or we think for a minute, take one last drag, immerse the glowing butt into the nearest beer can, shrug, and admit, “no.”

And that should fill us with joy. It is the ultimate agency. We are free - deliriously free! - to determine the meaning of our lives.

I have known pathetic men (offering myself as an example).

I have known heroes who would never have determined that they would be so.

Somewhere, between Randism and strict altruism, we choose. Life sucks. We can suck completely or only suck a little. The meaning of our existence wavers between those sounds of sucking.