If I could stop there, I'd be fine. My trouble is that I then start to wonder what else the question might imply. Who benifits from my working here? Who benefits from my existence? It's not long before the jest transforms itself into some all-too-serious navel-gazing.
Query: is it possible that any meaning given to our lives rests in the ability to reform ourselves once our innocence and preconceptions have been shattered?
I discovered on Saturday that some heavy cream I had bought for other uses had spontaneously cultured into marscapone. Once I tasted it to make sure that it hadn't been cultured by a bad bug (No sour: check. No bitter: check. Nigh on triple crème flavor profile... check), I immediately set to whisking it with a touch of sugar and a couple of tablespoons of maple whiskey and proceeded to serve it with shaved high-cocoa chocolate. Its reception was very good, even in the face of my explanation that it was an unintentional cheesemaking experience. I'll make some for real soon.