Existential Dread and Mismatched Socks: A Deep Dive into the Human Condition

Let’s talk about something we all grapple with but rarely discuss: the fact that every morning we wake up, put on mismatched socks, drink liquid bean juice, and pretend everything is fine. Meanwhile, we’re hurtling through space on a giant rock, completely unsure of what we’re doing here. But hey, at least brunch exists.

Some people cope with this existential confusion by doing yoga. Others meditate. I personally scream into a pillow and then make a to-do list that I will promptly ignore. We all have our coping mechanisms.

At some point in life, we all face that creeping realization: life doesn’t come with a manual. It doesn’t even come with IKEA-style diagrams. Instead, we get vague advice from people who were winging it just as much as we are now. Your uncle told you to "invest early." Your aunt told you to "marry someone kind." And your horoscope told you to “avoid Mercury retrograde and untrustworthy Geminis.” Solid advice all around.

But the real kicker? We have to do all of this — live, love, try not to cry while reading our bank statements — while pretending we understand taxes. Taxes! The government's annual attempt to remind us that adulthood is just a long series of guessing and hoping no one audits you.

Yet somehow, amid all this chaos, we manage to convince ourselves that we’re in control. We schedule things. We set alarms. We download productivity apps that gently shame us for not journaling at 6 a.m. It’s a noble effort, truly. But let’s be honest: most of us feel like we’re in a group project where no one knows who’s leading, the deadline is vague, and Chad has already dropped the class without telling anyone.

Take grocery shopping, for example. You walk in with a list: kale, almond milk, eggs. You walk out with frozen waffles, a candle that smells like "forest sadness," and an existential void where your budget used to be. Grocery stores are like adult playgrounds—except instead of monkey bars, there’s guilt and kombucha.

And don’t get me started on small talk. The fact that we can stand in an elevator and say, “Crazy weather, huh?” while internally screaming about the meaning of existence is both impressive and deeply unsettling. Why are we so committed to pretending we’re fine? Is it because if we all admitted we were confused, society would collapse into a giant support group that meets twice a week and serves snacks?

Actually… that doesn’t sound too bad.

But here’s the beautiful twist in this cosmic joke: somehow, in the midst of the absurdity, we find meaning. Real meaning. Like when someone laughs at your joke. Or when a dog chooses you at the park. Or when you find $5 in an old coat pocket and briefly consider yourself a financial genius.

We’re not here for long, but we are here. And while we may not know why, we do know that hugs help, naps are sacred, and that feeling when your phone battery is at 1% and you find a charger? That’s hope. That’s faith. That’s what keeps us going.

The truth is, life isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about asking the right questions. Like: “Why are the most profound conversations always had at 2 a.m. over cold pizza?” Or: “Do we really need 17 streaming services?” Or the eternal query: “If I scream into the void, does the void scream back?”

So go ahead—wear mismatched socks. Eat cereal for dinner. Laugh until your stomach hurts. Text your weird friend from high school just to say hi. Accept that being a human is a bizarre, hilarious, touching experience that often makes no sense and that’s okay.

Because in the end, life might just be a long, strange sitcom where no one knows the plot, the writers are making it up as they go, and the laugh track is suspiciously timed. And honestly? That’s kind of beautiful.

Roll credits.