A few years ago, I had the exact same dilemma. In a state of disillusion and antipathy, I travelled to the inner heart of central Australia where I met an Aboriginal elder named Goannabeard. I trusted him and his many generations of wisdom with my problem. At first he would not tell me the true answer to my lifelong question. I begged and pleaded, but my attempts were met with a solemn silence and a small cave painting of a kangaroo eyeing off a native man. After seven days and seven nights, I knew my pleading attempts were futile so I set off in search of the meaning of this cave painting. I asked three different local tribes and was given three very different answers, but with one fundamental thing in common. Each story of the cave painting involved the local waterhole ion some way or another. I ventured down to the waterhole, which I had now become quite familiar with and spent half a day looking around for something peculiar, although I didn't know what exactly. Then, in the height of the afternoon sun I found it. Goannabeard's youngest daughter (named Eucalyptheart) came to the edge of the waterhole and started singing. She was more beautiful than anything I could have imagined.* I asked her why she sang. She stopped singing and looked at me with her beautiful brown eyes. We seemed to be staring at each other forever, but it was not to be. She started singing again, this time in more of a wailing fashion like someone who has just fallen down some stairs. I grew tired of this noise and ventured back toward Goannabeard. He was standing where I'd left him, by his cave paintings. I said to him firmly "Goannabeard, tell me the answer to my predicament and I'll give you ten dollars". Astute in the ways of trade, he accepted. "mad jew," he said "get a ****ing life".
*I'd been in the desert for quite some time by now. Even my own pubic hair was starting to look quite attractive.
kidding right?
