On a whim I bought some salt and vinegar flavored potato chips. “They can’t be that bad,” I thought. “People eat these all the time.” I didn’t actually try them until later that evening. The first chip went in my mouth and, though initially tasty, left a strange and chemical aftertaste in my mouth. Not entirely pleasant, that was, and I looked down at the package in my hands and decided that I should either give them away or through them out or something.

Instead, I ate another. It was just as strange as the first, and made my face pucker slightly. It almost stung, or rather tingled as if there were an active ingredient other than flavor. Picture me standing there, in front of the cupboard, asking with each chip just why I was subjecting myself to this. They were horrible! And yet I ate. Abominable! I had another. Each bite was accompanied by a silent questioning of my very existence. Why was I doing this to myself? Oh god, oh god.

Ten chips in and I realized that existentialism tastes like a salt and vinegar potato chip. I’ve yet to come to terms with this.