Netflix, existentialism, and the meaning of life

It’s 9:30 AM on a Thursday morning. I’m out the door, a disposition completely different from all the other mornings of this unemployed past month. It’s interview day. One more in the pile of mediocre positions that I’m applying to. Today’s company? A stuffy corporation that has coerced me to don the only pencil skirt and heels that I own.

As I’m trekking the mile and a half commute by foot (catching every pothole in the sidewalk with the spikes of my heels), I hear the voices of my peers pestering me about my “next move.”

“So what’s next?”
“You’re just chilling?”
“You should apply to company x, y, and z.”

After about 10 minutes of internal dialogue, with which I probably even vocally contributed to (making me sound just as crazy as the crack heads on O’Farrell Street that I was passing), I finally thought to myself — What the hell am I doing? Why am I going to interviews with companies that I don’t even want to work for? Where did I buy these heels? ‘Cause these sons-of-a-bitches freaking hurt!

I thought about why I was here for a few seconds. The best answer I could come up with was this: To appease the voices in my head – to have an “update” so I can assure my friends (and myself) that I am still working towards my purpose.

My purpose….

As advents of society, we spend our whole lives creating a very specific “purpose” for ourselves. One decision is a stepping stone to the next and “everything happen for a reason.” We go to x school and get x grades so we can eventually work for x company and make x money. Only when all of that happens will you find happiness. It’s drilled into our heads from childhood. It’s the path we must take, or we’ll undoubtedly find ourselves years later, metamorphized into those same homeless crackheads I scoffed at a few minutes ago.

I’ve always been a firm believer of the “purpose” (thanks to the influence of my very Asian parents). But it’s weird… After a month of being at home, watching an obscene amount of Netflix, flicking the bean and occasionally doing some self-reflection, my formularized “purpose” is beginning to lose its merit.

When I reflect on my journey from New Jersey to San Francisco, I’ve realized most of my decisions have been, instead, very coincidental and not purposeful at all. There was no, one specific path that I took to end up where I am now – I just ended up here because an available room opened up for rent. These decisions did not make me any less (or more) happier.

Which leads me to the following thoughts… What’s the point of our “purpose”? When we achieve it, will we reach the ultimate level of happiness? Or maybe there’s more to life than this society-shaped “purpose” of ours. Fuck, maybe no body really even has a purpose. Maybe we’re in this life, just to live it. To be just another animal on this planet. To do whatever the hell we want until we die, like all other animals.

As I’m sitting in the enclosed room, explaining to the interviewer my resume, I stumble on my words and on my thoughts and completely bomb the remainder of the questions he asks. It’s then I realize I’m watching too many damn Indie movies that are causing me to spend my time thinking about weird shit like this. I should instead be practicing how to sell my soul to corporate.

Freaking Netflix, man.


14 Replies to “Netflix, existentialism, and the meaning of life”

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