Dear Mr. Motzko,
In my science class, I was recently asked what the meaning of life was. I was brought to think, maybe it is an equation? Happiness? Chocolate? I was stumped! Even though the teacher gave a legitimate scientific answer, I was apprehensive. I wondered if there was actually a single meaning of life. Please help me.
If I had a greenback dollar for every time I’ve been asked about the meaning of life, I’d be able to buy a secluded Himalayan mountaintop befitting my role as dispenser of wisdom. Until that happens, I’m keeping the flowing robes.
Life as an equation? Shudder. I’m not one for the tyranny of numbers. Do you really want the mathletes telling you how many fingers you have? It isn’t like you need numbers. Several Amazonian tribes lack the ability to count past two. This has spared them from spending their hard earned goats on visual tripe like Rocky IV.
Nor do I think life’s meaning is best conveyed in the iambic pentameter of verse. Start with the fancy talk and soon you’re dictating your own tombstone. I may live dangerously (as season 3 of Cops can attest) but not that dangerously.
I prefer to think of the meaning of life in biological terms as biology is, after all, the study of life. Now don’t give me any of that “Biology is a soft science” lip. There’s nothing soft about being impaled on a narwhal horn, is there? Biology suggests life’s meaning is to know one’s ultimate role. Since the ultimate role of the Green Goblin was already taken by Willem Dafoe (side note: vengeance is mine, Dafoe!), our backup role is to cave in to inevitable forces of entropy. Perhaps, the meaning of life is to die and decompose, returning our matter to the corners of the universe (although hopefully, not to Sudbury, Ontario. That town is a dump.) Indeed, stop, drop and rot. Doubt
Dear Mr. Motzko,