Existentialism For Babies

I put the bun in his crib with his Tiny Love symphony mobile spinning above him so that I could do some bills. I heard coos and the occasional grunt from the other room, and he seemed completely entertained. The pile of bills shrank, the sun was shining. Until the bun let out a bloodcurdling shriek as though he was being attacked by man-eating pterodactyls or zombie swamp-men from outer space. I leaped out of my seat faster than I've moved since high school and ran to discover what sort of horror had befallen my child. There he was screaming, no evidence of spiders, no cat who had leaped on his face, not one single pterodactyl. But the mobile was spinning along...

I suspect that the bun got a glimpse of the void there. For one fleeting second it all came together in front of him as the mobile danced over his head: the endlessly cycling music, the cute vapid animals with the idiot grins rising and falling and rising again, chasing after each other in a pointless race that has no meaning and no end, eternally bobbing toward oblivion.

I would scream too.