Here I am, 12:30 am, Saturday night. I’m reading one of those “great” novels when I hear a thud on my window followed by, “Hey loser!” Then a chorus of laughter.
I peek outside, but they are off. I learn the next morning that the object in question is not a half-eaten piece of pizza, nor even the venerable bag of poop, but instead one of those blue-haired troll dolls.
The Existentialists and Absurdists love my story, and I am inclined to hear them out a bit more. But the longer I sit with it, the more it makes me smile, realizing that this universe is alive, young, full of mischief and laughter—in other words, anything but purposeless.
Latitudes of Plenty 