The Mysteries of Life

“One of life’s greatest pleasures is its inherent mysteries.” I read that on a fortune cookie the other day and immediately found truth in it: It’s like, whoa, where’d that come from? How’d they get that little piece of paper in a cookie like that?

I find that life’s mysteries go beyond fortune cookies. When I get tired of wearing my shirt, I usually just throw it on the ground, wherever. Then, without fail, it shows up the next day in the dirty clothes hamper. Is it Carol that’s picking up after me, or something more mysterious? I might ask her, but I think sometimes it’s more fun not to know.

Another great mystery I’ve been mulling is that of the Great Pyramids--where are they? What’s so special about them? Are they really over 100-years-old, as they say?

I don’t know and, frankly, that feels kind of nice.

Here’s a doozy: What’s all the hubbub in the Middle East about? Who’s this Bin Laden character, and what did he do to piss everyone off so much? According to CNN’s website, he’s some sort of terrorist, which brings me to another mystery: what’s a “terrorist?” I imagine it has something to do with terror, but, in this life, one can never be certain.

Last night, I spent several hours in a bar downtown, pounding shots of whiskey with my friend Bart. Then, this morning, the whole evening turned out to be one big mystery: why am I covered in blood? Who vomited in my bed? Why is Carol being such a bitch today? Remember at the beginning of this paragraph when I said I was drinking with my friend Bart. Well, that was a lie. But why would I lie about that? Oh, sounds like another mystery to me.

I’m not the only one who’s caught the mystery bug. I was down in the basement playing with my remote control cars when I overheard Carol speaking to her sister. “I swear,” her sister said, “I don’t know what you see in him. Why doesn’t he get his shit together and get a job?”

“It’s a mystery to me,” said Carol, sighing exhaustedly--I imagine because mysteries can be exhausting. That’s another thing.

My point is that mysteries surround us all, from the smallest--”Why can’t I find a studio to produce my screenplay ‘Sexbots In Space’--to the largest-- 'If God is really out there, why won’t he answer my constant prayers for ‘more bitches and money?’”

Maybe unanswered prayers are a good thing, but I can’t see why the Big Man has it in for me. It’s like, what’d I ever do to him, you know? I was thinking about that in my hammock the other day, and a mighty wind shook the trees in the back yard. It made me think: what is wind? Why is it here?

Maybe that particular gust was a sign that the Man Upstairs was ready to make good on the bitches and money thing, but one can never know--He’s quite mysterious, after all. By that time, I was pretty drunk off that wine I stole, so I went inside, sat in my beanbag chair and watched Carol vacuum up the crumbs I left on the floor from lunch--all the while, waiting for those bitches and money, and pondering the mysteries of life.