Few questions have haunted humanity more than this one, and countless great minds have wasted lifetimes trying to answer it.

Which is a shame, because this question makes absolutely no sense.

Asking “What is the meaning of life?” is like asking “What is the meaning of this potato?”

It makes no fucking sense. Just eat the potato.

You can make the potato into whatever you want: fries, mashed, baked, or bite into it like an apple if you’re feeling crazy.

Maybe you’ve got a russet or a sweet potato. It doesn’t matter. You still get to decide how to cook it.

Some people spend their whole lives looking for the perfect recipe: reading, thinking, waiting for permission to start. But life, like potatoes, doesn’t come with instructions. You figure it out by trying, failing, burning a few batches, and learning what works.

Others keep staring at everyone else’s plate, wondering why theirs looks better. But you can’t live off someone else’s recipe forever. Their potato isn’t your potato. Their life isn’t your life.

Life’s the same way. You don’t choose the potato, but you choose what to do with it. Maybe yours has a few bruises or came out smaller than you hoped. Fine. Make something anyway.

The meaning isn’t in the potato. It’s in the cooking.

There’s only one difference. You can eat a lot of potatoes. Probably too many.

But you only get one life. So stop trying to find its meaning, and start cooking.